


Possibly I Like The Thrill

by Fightyourdragon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Divergence- His Last Vow, Conversations, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Past tense Victor/Sherlock, Penetrative Sex, Polyamory, Threesome - F/M/M, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 03:57:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 89,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fightyourdragon/pseuds/Fightyourdragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This fic goes canon divergent for everything following Mary acting as a client in His Last Vow. Sherlock misses John. John misses Sherlock. Victor Trevor, Sherlock's oldest friend (and a super nice guy in this version) and participant in the 'great sexual experiment of '98' shows up to cuddle the hell out of a touch-starved Sherlock, get him talking, and get those two idiots back together. He'll work on Mary later. One fucked-up couple at a time is all he can handle. </p><p>Complete!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dr_girlfriend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_girlfriend/gifts).



> Hi Sherlock fandom! This is my first gift back to the community- until now I've just been enjoying all the amazing fic from the reader's side of things. This story just took over my brain though, and I feel like it hasn't been told yet so it lessens the nerves at entering such an amazing fandom. This is definitely canon divergent, as I have an entirely different (not so different it's cracky- CAM will still end up dead and Moriarty will return) ending plotted out from that of His Last Vow. One that involves them all working together instead of being so painfully out-of-synch. For the Victor Trevor fans, since I gather there are many versions of him: My Victor Trevor is not abusive, and he and Sherlock have a great relationship. There will be no present tense Victor/Sherlock, though it will happen in flashback form and there is a lot of current touching and cuddling. This will eventually turn into a Johnlockary story, but that will take a while to get to so there will be Johnlock first. So if you absolutely hate the idea of those three all getting along and working out a functional relationship this probably isn't the story for you. 
> 
> This is a gift for dr_girlfriend since she is amazing in both this and my other love, the 00Q fandom, and she helped me so much on my gift fic for my amazing beta Hedwig_Dordt. All the thanks to Hedwig- the Sherlock to my John (cuz she's the smart one)- for making this story as cohesive as it is.

i like my body when it is with your

body. It is so quite a new thing.

Muscles better and nerves more.

i like your body. i like what it does,

i like its hows. i like to feel the spine

of your body and its bones, and the trembling

-firm-smooth ness and which I will

again and again and again

kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,

i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz

of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes

over parting flesh...And eyes big love-crumbs,

 

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you quite so new

 

\- e. e. cummings

 

 

Sherlock slumps in his chair. Tries not to look at John’s. _Sentiment_. This is all John’s fault, damn the infuriating man. Before John, he’d been content to ignore inconvenient feelings like guilt, loneliness, jealousy, and love. He wants to complain about that last one especially, preferably to John himself, but he isn’t here. Sherlock had put his chair back, had as good as told John he was welcome to move back in. John had sat in it, and it had been good again, even if John was hurting and angry and Mary was also in the room with them. Sherlock slams a door in his mind palace against that entire subject. John is his real concern, and John _isn’t here._ John has been _not here_ for a week.

 

 _I need space Sherlock, you understand, right?_ John had said while examining a crack in the ceiling just before Sherlock was released from the hospital. He’d gone to Lestrade’s. _Lestrade’s_. Sherlock shakes his head in frustration. Wrong. It’s all wrong. John was supposed to stay. Did not stay. Human error at its worst.

 

Sherlock fiddles with his mobile. Considers what to say but doesn’t know what will work. What will make John return to him, at least for a while. John won’t stay. Sherlock knows this. John is a good man, so he will return to Mary and to his child. He will choose Mary, who he loves, over Sherlock, who he also loves- _he said it. Said he loves Sherlock-_ because...that’s what good men do, he supposes. Sherlock has never considered himself to be a particularly good man, so he isn’t completely cognizant of why good men do what they do. But John returning to Mary is a known factor. Sherlock just wants him here, close, until he does. _Sentiment._

Footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock sits up and listens closely. _Skipping stairs, so tall and likely male due to the sound of flat leather shoes, rapid approach and steady pace indicates confident, practically running up the stairs while carrying something heavy in one hand. Client? No, he’s compensating too much for the extra weight for it to be a briefcase. Suitcase is more likely. Long distance travel then. Who would possibly settle on this flat as a destination, and with a large bag as if expecting to stay?_  There is a brief pause just outside the door, which isn’t locked. A rapped out pattern of knocks that he hasn’t heard in over fifteen years. His fingers tighten on the sides of the chair. His pulse speeds up. The door opens.

 

Victor steps inside, his trademark carefree grin in place. His eyes meet Sherlock’s. “Well then. You look even more gorgeous in person than you do in the papers. Unfairly gorgeous for a man who was nearly dead not long ago, really. What’s your secret? Expensive creams? Those disgusting health shakes?” He sets his suitcase down, takes off a sleek gray pea coat, toes off his shoes, and then strides across the room to ruffle Sherlock’s hair.

 

Sherlock’s brain has gone offline and is struggling to reboot. Again. He’s getting rather tired of being caught completely off-guard. He opens his mouth to protest the sudden intimacy, but what comes out is an unintelligible noise of surprise and pleasure. He always hated how much he didn’t hate Victor playing with his hair. With his anything, really, and- what? Redact.

 

Victor’s smile widens impossibly and he leans down to kiss Sherlock lightly on the nose before heading for the kitchen. “Tea, that’s what I need. You’ve no idea how difficult it is to find proper tea in New York. I generally have to make due with what passes for tea at Starbucks.” He begins rummaging through the cupboards and pulls down a tin of the loose leaf English Breakfast tea John prefers. “God that’s good,” he sighs as he smells it. He fills the electric kettle and flicks it on then turns back to face Sherlock.

 

Sherlock is still processing. Victor is here. In his flat. Kissing him on the nose in a familiar affectation that throws him back to one perfect summer. He fights between being thrilled and irritated. He had rather been enjoying his sulk in that masochistic way one does. “What exactly are you doing here, Victor?” he snaps. “I haven’t heard from you in years.”

 

Victor saunters- there really no other word for it- back over and shoves Sherlock’s arm off so he can sit on the edge of the chair. “In fairness, that was definitely your fault seeing as I thought you were dead and all,” he teases. “Don’t think you’re off the hook for failing to resume our monthly correspondence once you made your dramatic return, but I’ll get to that later.” He winks and shifts so his right foot is propped up on the far arm of the chair while his left leg drapes carelessly over Sherlock’s thighs. He rests his right hand lightly on Sherlock’s shoulder, completely unconcerned with trifles like personal space. “Come now, I’ve been informed you took a bullet to the chest not the head. Go on, deduce me. I’ve missed it.”

 

The closeness is strangely comforting and familiar despite the years that separate them. Sherlock feels too many things at once. Excitement. Curiosity. A desire to impress. Confusion. Uncertainty. The echoes of past desire. It takes him a few moments to shove his emotions behind a convenient door so he can focus on Victor’s request. He takes a deep breath and begins. “Lingering scent of smog, clearly you do still live in New York as you’ve said. Faint tan despite the season, evidence of lithe musculature beneath the tailored J Crew clothing- you really have gone native haven’t you- so clearly you like to run. Likely you've kept up hiking as the Appalachian Mountains are nearby. Also I would suspect tennis. Pattern of expression lines indicates you’re generally irritatingly happy. Ease of hopping on a plane the day you decided to leave- judging from the length of time since you last washed your hair- and time of arrival when no jets are arriving from New York indicates hiring a private jet so clearly you’re doing very well for yourself.”

 

“Very,” Victor nods. “Thanks again for that tip about Google, though what you’ve done with your cut I’ve no idea.” He glances around the flat and raises a brow. “That's all fairly obvious though, what else? Are you slacking in your old age?”

 

Sherlock makes an indignant noise. Slacking? He narrows his eyes. “You have a cat. An orange tabby. You’re mildly allergic, but you keep it because...your live-in partner likes it. Is sentiment truly worth the itchy eyes?” Sherlock leans closer and inhales deeply. “You’re dating an artist. He does oil paintings. In addition, he’s working on a marble sculpture.” Sherlock brushes a bit of dust out of the hair just above Victor’s ear. “Judging from the fact you’ve broken two fingers and your leg since I’ve last seen you, and you have a new scar in your eyebrow, you’re still addicted to dangerous activities. It follows that you still routinely lose thousands at cards.”

 

“I win thousands just as often. Besides, that was what convinced you I should give up on my law degree and just play the market. You called me fearless and idiotic, but not quite stupid, and just sadistic and calculating enough to make it on Wall Street. I believe there was also a charming bastard thrown in there, but that might have just been the afterglow talking,” Victor adds with a knowing smirk.

 

Sherlock snorts derisively and continues. “Caffeine addiction, but clearly you’ve left off the cocaine. Pinot Noir is still your drink of choice. You think it makes you look posh, but really it just makes you look pretentious. Despite your overt flirtation you’ve no real interest in sexual congress with me.” He slides one finger up the back of Victor’s hand. “Nevertheless, you still feel a Pavlovian sense of arousal just from my general proximity. Understandable, given that summer working our way through every sex act we could discover or conceive of. There’s no point in denying the feeling is mutual, but I have no current interest in sex with you either. Oh, and Mycroft called you in. Meddling bastard.”

 

“Brilliant,” Victor grins.

 

Sherlock’s stomach twists. He misses John. His eyes flick over to the empty chair and he feels a rush of anger that an inanimate object holds such power over his emotional state.

 

“Lost you. You still do that I see.” The kettle whistles, and Victor gets up to prepare the tea. “Thinking about the man you _do_ want to have sexual congress with? And really Sherlock, speaking of pretentious, why can’t you just say fuck like everyone else?” he calls from the kitchen.

 

“Because I am nothing like everyone else!” Sherlock retorts as irritation threatens to become violent anger. _Control._ He used to have it, but John couldn’t even leave him with that. “And what do you even know about John?”

 

“I didn’t actually say a name,” Victor points out in an infuriatingly knowing tone. “Besides, he was all you talked about in your emails once you two met. I did receive some updated information though.”

 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock growls. “What did he tell you?”

 

“Nothing directly, he just called and said you needed someone and all your usual someones wouldn’t do. Then he sent a file. It was rather extensive. Not that it was completely new information, since I do keep up on John’s blog. But your brother is seriously creepy, you know that right? Stalker doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

 

“I’m aware,” Sherlock grits out.

 

“And _you_. I suppose not letting me know you were alive was acceptable given the circumstances, but John...letting him believe you were dead was was so far beyond shitty I don’t even know what to say about it. Then you show up and he hits you? I get the _desire_ to hit you, but he actually did it. You know hitting someone you claim to love is seriously wrong, don’t you?” Victor comes out with two cups of tea and hands one to Sherlock, then perches on the side of the chair again.

 

Sherlock feels instantly defensive. “I miscalculated. I didn’t grasp the depth of his affection for me. Besides, I rather deserved it.”

 

Victor raises a brow at Sherlock incredulously. “Oh we’ll get to just what happened to you to fuck your psyche up that badly, because the Sherlock I knew would never have believed that. Moving on for now though, you then practically single-handedly throw him this extravagant wedding and make nice with his bride and confess your love to an entire reception hall-”

 

“I didn’t mean it like that-”

 

“Shut up and drink your tea,” Victor orders.

 

Sherlock obeys on instinct, then freezes with the cup to his lips. The manipulating bastard, using _that_ voice.

 

“And _then_ , neither of you emotionally stunted men speak to each other for a full month, during which you pretend to date a bridesmaid and go back to your drug habit.”

 

“It was for a case!”

 

“Fuck your case, Sherlock, and don’t even _think_ you can lie to me when it was you who taught me how to spot one in the first place. I know you in ways your current friends could never hope to, so save the BAFTA performances for someone who's buying it,” Victor states, his tone daring Sherlock to protest. He doesn’t. “And for the coup de grace, John’s new wife shoots you in the chest yet you encourage him to forgive her. Tell him he can trust her. That they’re basically perfect for each other because he’s a danger addict and she’s a bloody assassin!”

 

Sherlock’s voice is choked with anger. “You have no right to know all of this! How the hell do you know all of this?!”

 

“Apparently Mrs. Hudson was so concerned she told Mycroft everything when he asked what went down that night. Right or not, you can’t change the fact that I _do_ know. And now all of you have gone your separate ways even though you want to be together and Christ Sherlock, this is the most messed up situation I’ve ever heard of and you wouldn’t believe some of the shit that happens behind the scenes on Wall Street.”

 

Sherlock snaps. “It wasn’t supposed to be! He was supposed to pick me! In the room that night, I thought he would pick me! Two years of hell, Victor. I did unspeakable things. Things I never thought- and he doesn’t even know! He never asked! He just got on with his life. Fell in love. I came back and he was gone. He wasn’t _my_ John anymore. And I didn’t even want- I know he doesn’t- he was always dating, going on about not being gay and I knew we would never be- but I still- and it’s wrong. Selfish. Of course he should be happy and she makes him happy so I will make sure he gets her but...He doesn’t. Even. Know.” Victor takes the cup of tea out of his shaking hands. Sherlock pulls his knees up and wraps his arms around them. Is frightened for his sanity. He doesn’t say these things. Something is very, very wrong with him.

 

Victor sets his own tea down as well. Takes Sherlock’s hand and guides him up out of the chair. “I know it’s not okay, Sherlock, but it will be. Trust me. Bedroom?”

 

Sherlock blinks. Points. Feels like he’s crashing hard after a high. Lets himself be led into the bedroom. Watches as Victor pulls back the covers and gestures for him to get in. He does.

 

Victor slides in behind Sherlock and adjusts them until he’s spooned up and holding his friend gently. “Is this okay?” he asks, his breath warm against the nape of Sherlock’s neck.

 

Sherlock doesn’t want to want this, wants to say no, that he’s _fine_ , that Victor should leave. But it’s been so long since someone held him like this. Since Victor himself, actually, and he doesn’t have the strength to fight it. He nods. Relaxes slowly. Memorizes the sensation of being touched.

 

“Go to sleep, Sherlock. I know you hardly sleep at the best of times, and I imagine you’ve been surviving on far too little. I’m sorry I pushed for more than you wanted to tell me. It’s a personal fault, but you know I’m a pushy arse. Still, I’ll try to do better. Now sleep.”

 

Sherlock does. When he slowly swims back to consciousness it’s still dark. He feels oddly disconnected, but in a good way. As if his mind is actually resting and letting him focus solely on physical sensations. Warmth is the first thing that registers, then the unfamiliar press of skin against skin where his face is tucked into the curve of Victor’s neck and his chest is pressed against the slightly sweat-dampened skin of Victor’s side. He even has an arm wrapped around Victor’s stomach. For a moment he can’t recall how they ended up this way, then the haze of sleep clears enough to recall a late night trip to the washroom and allowing himself to be stripped down to his pants before crawling back into bed. He should probably find this entire situation uncomfortably strange, but in light of recent events it hardly registers as a one.

 

“If I recall correctly, I have about a ten minute window of pliant Sherlock after good sleep or good sex,” Victor murmurs as he brings his hand up to scratch lightly at Sherlock’s scalp. “Is that still true?”

 

Sherlock cuts off an embarrassing sigh of pleasure. It’s been so long since he’s been spoiled with this much physical attention that he can hardly control his reactions to just how good it feels. “I would say that’s an accurate assessment, yes.” He inhales deeply. American Crew shower gel and shaving cream, remnants of Burberry cologne, the sharp tang of sweat. He clamps his mouth shut so he doesn’t do something ridiculous like run his tongue along the stubble of Victor’s jaw.

 

“Tell me about John, Sherlock. Not what’s in Mycroft’s file. Tell me how you went from best friends to this. To me being here instead of him. I’ve seen the video of your best man speech, and his was definitely the face of a man who loves you.”

 

Sherlock’s chest tightens in the way it always does when he thinks about John now. He’s not sure he wants to talk about it. “Maybe he’s not here because he doesn’t want to _fuck_ me,” he sneers, emphasis on the word fuck just to prove he can say it.

 

Victor ignores the attempt to irritate him into sidetracking the conversation. “I don’t want to fuck you either, but here I am. There’s a flaw in your logic, Sherlock.”

 

“Because he’s married and he doesn’t want to cheat on his wife.”

 

Victor shrugs. “I’m married. You missed that in your deductions, old man. We have matching tattoos instead of rings; Ryan designed them. He knows I’m here, and that while I’m here I’ll be sleeping with you. Touching you. But he trusts me, and he knows it doesn’t mean I love or want him any less.”

 

“Because he’s straight then.”

 

“That could explain why he’s not half naked in your bed, but not why he’s not here in the flat with you.”

 

“Because he’s angry with me.”

 

“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. What specifically is he upset about?”

 

“Everything! I didn’t tell him I was alive, but if I’d told him he would’ve insisted on coming with me, and I wanted him safe. Probably because I let him think we were about to be blown up so I could beg for forgiveness and he would grant it. Also that I didn’t tell him right away that it was Mary who shot me. Quite likely for leading Janine on. He did seem rather disturbed when she kissed me, though at that point he wasn’t actually aware I was faking anything. Oh, and for the drugs. And not talking to him for a month after the wedding, but in fairness he didn’t talk to me either.” Sherlock blinks. That is rather a lot, when put into list form.

 

Victor whistles out a long breath. “Well, shit. This is going to take longer than I expected. Honestly Sherlock, you’re lucky you’re bloody gorgeous because you are colossally unaware of what an arse you are.”

 

“I think I’m extremely aware.”

 

Victor sighs. “No. No, you’re really not.” He slides out from beneath Sherlock, leans down to kiss him on the nose, then gets out of bed. “I need a shower, then breakfast. Do you actually have food in or has your charming habit of subsiding on chocolate biscuits been allowed to continue?”

 

As soon as Victor closes the washroom door, Sherlock grabs his dressing gown and heads downstairs to raid Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen despite the fact that it’s four o’clock in the morning.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued thanks to the lovely Hedwig-Dordt for her amazing beta work and all the time spent discussing headcanons and plot lines!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read this story, and those of you who took the time to comment on it! You can always come say hi to me over on tumblr, I have the same username there. Stay awesome, fandom!

By the time Victor emerges from the washroom with a towel wrapped around his waist to rummage through his suitcase for clothes, Sherlock has tea and toast prepared. Mrs. Hudson slept through the raid, though he has no doubt she will storm up in a fit of indignation once she wakes to discover all of her jam jars are missing. He’d been uncertain which variety Victor would prefer. “You are aware this isn’t your penthouse apartment with its endless supply of hot water, are you not?” Sherlock snarks as he watches Victor slip unselfconsciously into a pair of soft gray trousers and a navy cashmere jumper.

 

Victor strides over to sit next to Sherlock on the sofa and eyes the four jam jars on the small table next to his toast. “I’m aware. But I owe you a few cold showers considering all the times you used up the all the hot water on me. You take the longest showers known to man. Maybe that should go on the list of reasons why John isn’t staying here,” he points out with a grin as he spreads apricot jam on his toast.      

 

Sherlock grits his teeth. He’d hoped Victor would lay off the raw subject of John for a few hours at least. “John prefers baths. And I always made certain to arrange my showering schedule to accommodate him.”

 

Victor freezes with the toast halfway to his mouth. “Oh my god. You really _are_ in love with him. There were days I got you off half a dozen times and you never gave me that sort of consideration. Sherlock Holmes in love. I’ll bet you the stocks from any one of the companies I currently own a controlling interest in that you’re pants at this and he has no idea.”

 

Sherlock glowers at Victor. Hates him for a few moments.

 

Victor’s expression softens suddenly. “ _Oh_. Oh, Sherlock. You had no idea either, did you? All those emails talking about him I just assumed- but you never actually said- and then you saved him and came home to him and he was engaged. You finally realized you loved him and you thought it was too late.”

 

“It _was_ too late,” Sherlock states, setting down his half-eaten piece of toast. Again with the things he doesn’t say. Never thought he’d admit. He’s not feeling hungry anymore. He’s feeling the same ragged-edged grief he’s been trying to seal away since his return, but it’s like acid eating away at the walls of his mind palace. It’s awful. How do people do this? All the stupid, normal people. How do they survive feeling so much? Mycroft was right, damn him. _Don’t get involved. Caring is not an advantage._

 

“I’ll admit your timing is for shit, but I doubt it’s too late. You have read his blog, right? If that was written by a woman everyone would assume she was in love with you. He thinks you’re brilliant. He put up with your shit for _years_ and he wasn’t even getting sex out of the deal _._ Trust me, this relationship is not entirely platonic from his end. Are you _certain_ he’s completely straight?”  

 

“He only dates women. I’ve never seen any evidence of him looking at other men with any sort of arousal. He gets uncomfortable when people assume we’re together romantically.”

 

“Back up. _Other_ men? As in he looks at you like he wants to get you naked and do wicked things to you?”

 

“I don’t- John is...complicated. He shouldn’t be complicated, but he is. I can’t trust my own deductions when it comes to him because they’re tainted by sentiment. What if I’m reading into things and seeing subtext where there isn’t any?” Sherlock flops over and curls up in the sort of dramatic sulk that always made John roll his eyes. “He reduces me to being average, and it’s unacceptable. Maddening.”

 

“Yes, god forbid you should have to experience complicated emotions and uncertainties like the rest of us plebeians,” Victor drawls. “Ignoring for the moment whether he does in fact want to experience the joys of gay sex with you-” he ignores Sherlock’s choked noise- “what do you want? In a fantasy world where you returned and he was here waiting for you, what would have happened?”

 

“There’s no point to playing a child’s game of imagination,” Sherlock snaps.

 

“Tell me or I’ll just ring him up and ask him how he feels about mutual blow jobs,” Victor threatens. “Mycroft gave me his number,”

 

“I forgot what a manipulative bastard you are,” Sherlock growls.

 

“It’s half the reason you chose me for the great sexual experiment of ‘98, don’t even try to deny it,” Victor counters.

 

Sherlock has to admit he’s right. Most people would agree that Victor is nearly as much of a calculating asshole as Sherlock, which is probably why neither of them made any friends in university apart from each other. He’s also just as fiercely loyal to those he deems important though, and Sherlock knows he isn’t asking out of a desire to hurt him. He sighs and gives in. “He would’ve asked what I did for him, and forgiven me for all of it. He would have told me I was brilliant, and we would’ve gone on solving cases together. He would’ve said he wanted me and I was his and ideally taken me over the back of his chair. All of which is worse than pointless to consider because it’s never going to happen.”  

 

“Except for the part where you don’t actually know that, since you’ve never spoken to him about it. But I can see you’ve about reached terminal velocity of talking, so we’ll continue this discussion later. I’ve brought you a present.” Victor gets up and pulls a few thick manilla envelopes out of his suitcase then hands them to Sherlock. “I figured you could use the distraction.”

 

“New York cold case files? How did you get these?” Sherlock pulls one out excitedly and begins flipping through it.

 

“I know people,” Victor hedges. “There’s a business card in each with contact information if you can manage to sort out anything new, which is likely. I’m afraid they’re even more inept than Scotland Yard over there.” He pulls out his own laptop and turns it on. Now what’s your wireless password? I do have a business to run. Well, sort of. I promoted my personal assistant to full partner yesterday. I almost feel sorry for the boys down on the trading floor; they’ll never see her coming.”

 

“Hmm,” Sherlock replies, only half listening as he begins reading the details of an unsolved double homicide from 2009. When Victor huffs and slides a pen and paper over the file he writes the password down quickly the goes back to work. The game is on.

 

Sherlock snaps back to reality some hours later when Mrs. Hudson comes bustling into the flat in search of her jam jars.

 

“Sherlock dear, if you wanted jam so badly you needed to go breaking into my flat in the middle of the night could you at least only steal one variety? I mean really, and if you’re still in too much pain to do the shopping I can always-” She stops once it registers that someone else is in the room. She glances over at the suitcase.“Oh, I didn’t know you had company.” She looks at Sherlock pointedly, waiting for an introduction.

 

Victor doesn’t bother waiting. He stand and takes her hand to kiss the back of it lightly. “Victor Trevor ma’am. It’s such a pleasure to meet you. You must be Mrs. Hudson, the only reason Sherlock hasn’t managed to starve himself to death. He speaks of you fondly.”

 

Sherlock merely snorts derisively and continues examining the file.

 

“Call me Martha dear,” she blushes. “Oh, your friends are all so handsome, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Don’t go giving him a bigger head than he’s already got. Hold on, you didn’t let him in last evening?”

 

Victor shrugs. “No one answered, so I picked the lock. You taught me well, it seems.”

 

Mrs. Hudson deflates a bit. “Oh no, not another one. Must all your friends be trouble as well? Do try not to have the police called. My nerves can’t take much more of this, they really can’t.”

 

Victor crosses his heart. “On my honor as a gentleman, Martha. I’m here to make things better, not worse.”

 

“Well, alright then. Will you be staying long?” She picks up two jars and nearly drops the third.

 

Victor picks up the other two jars. “As long as it takes to get those two idiots- him and John I mean- back together. Here, let me help you bring these back down.”

 

Sherlock watches them go suspiciously and hears Mrs. Hudson saying, “They’re just so lovely together, it’s such a shame…” before the voices fade. Victor is definitely up to something. Well, if it means he’ll have less to pry to Sherlock himself about he supposes that’s fine.

 

“She’s such a sweetheart,” Victor comments when he finally returns a good half an hour later. “Insisted on making me tea even though I’ve just had some.”

 

“She’s an ex-stripper who once helped run a drug cartel,” Sherlock points out as he pauses in his research of the weather on July 14th 2009 in New York city.

 

“I knew I liked her for a reason,” Victor replies with an easy smile as he settles into Sherlock’s chair and surveys the mess of pictures and papers which are now tacked up onto the wall. “Solve it yet?”

 

“Not yet, but it’s a devilishly tricky case.” It is. He’s starting to suspect it was a murder-suicide not an actual double homicide, but he can’t be certain yet. Something isn’t adding up about the humidity if would require to make the blood take that long to dry.

 

Victor pulls a slip of paper out of his pocket and begins adding contacts into his phone, courtesy of Mrs. Hudson. He watches for Sherlock’s inevitably displeased reaction, and hits call when he gets to Greg Lestrade.

 

_Lestrade._

 

“Hello there Greg. You probably haven’t heard of me, but this is Victor, Sherlock’s oldest friend. Well, probably his only friend aside from yourself, John, and Molly, from what I gather. Is this a good time? I’d like to talk to you about John. I’m just assuming he’s staying at yours?” Sherlock glares. It would probably frighten someone else.

 

_I’m sorry, what? Sherlock actually has a friend I don’t know?_

 

Victor hits speaker phone. “Sherlock, am I your friend?”

 

“You’re a meddling bastard is what you are!” Sherlock growls. He considers grabbing the phone and throwing it against a wall. Whatever Victor has planned, he’s probably not going to like it.

 

_That’s about as good as it gets with him,_ Lestrade acknowledges. _I’m just on my way into work, but I have time for this. Will someone please tell me why the hell John is sleeping on my sofa? Sherlock’s been ignoring my calls again, and John won’t tell me what’s wrong. If I didn’t know better I’d say Mary had an affair with Sherlock and that’s why they’re all avoiding each other._

 

Sherlock makes an indignant noise. “I can assure you there has been no sex involved. John is merely having a tantrum over something I can’t disclose.”

 

“William!” Victor snaps in a clear tone of rebuke. “Christ, do you see what I’m dealing with Greg? Is John any more rational?”

 

_Hold on...William?_

 

“That’s his first name. He just prefers Sherlock.”

 

_Oh, that’s just too good. Next time you call me Gavin I’ll tell everyone your little secret, Bill,_ Lestrade promises gleefully.

 

Victor rolls his eyes. “You’re all children. Back to John, please.”

 

_When I left this morning he was still job searching since he quit working for the clinic to avoid seeing Mary. Every time I bring up Sherlock’s name he looks like he’s not sure if he wants to punch the man or- well- I know he’s straight and all, but…_

 

“Right. Well I know Sherlock is definitely _not_ straight, but I’m getting a similar look. Possibly with a bit of lovesick puppy thrown in there,” Victor muses.

 

“I will poison your tea,” Sherlock threatens.

 

Victor gives Sherlock a distinctly unimpressed look. “Unlikely. Who else is going to pet your hair and cuddle you while you sleep until John returns?” The matching choked noises from Sherlock and Lestrade are rather amusing. “Back to business, Greg. I’m assuming you’d like your sofa back and Sherlock would like John back.”

 

_And...What about Mary?_

 

“One fucked up couple at a time is all I can handle,” Victor replies. “So. You work on that idiot and I’ll work on this one. Let’s aim for a week, shall we, for the grand reunion? Just tell John Sherlock’s old boyfriend is here for a visit and see if it even takes him that long to come around to the idea of staying here instead of with you.”

 

“You were never my boyfriend!” Sherlock protests.

 

“Well I suppose he could say, the man Sherlock had a ridiculous amount of sex with that one summer after university, but I’m not sure that’s really better,” Victor points out.

 

_I like him Sherlock,_ Lestrade says with an audible smile in his voice. _We should go for drinks Victor, I think we have a lot to discuss. Are you free tomorrow evening?_

 

“No!” Sherlock yells just as Victor agrees, “Sounds like fun.”

 

_Great! I’ll text you the name of the pub and you can delete the message right away so Sherlock doesn’t arrange for his spies to be there._ _Seven sound okay?_

 

“Seven is perfect. See you then,” Victor replies and rings off. He gives Sherlock one of his trademark, ‘yes I just did that and you can’t do anything about it’ looks.

 

Sherlock seethes. “What gives you the right to just insert yourself into my life? You can’t just show up and take over like I’m one of your newly acquired companies, Victor, because I am not! I don’t want your pity.” Sherlock gets up from the table and begins pacing the room.

 

Victor merely watches him, looking irritatingly uncowed. “It’s not pity you’re seeing, Sherlock. You’re definitely slipping.”

 

“No? I can literally _see_ you thinking, ‘Poor Sherlock, pining over the man he can’t have because he ruined everything by being himself. I know, I’ll just remind him how he used to crave touch like cocaine, and then I’ll bring John ‘round and he’ll want it so badly he’ll throw himself into John’s lap, and they’ll kiss and make up and everything will be sunshine and roses.’ Let’s just ignore the fact that John is married, and currently so angry at me he’s staying with Lestrade even though I nearly died! Did die in fact, for a bit there, not that I told him, and I have just as much right as he does to be angry-” He pauses in his rant as a realization clicks. He looks over at Victor, who is in fact smiling like he’s just won a game of Cluedo, the smug arse.

 

“Right then. Now we’re getting somewhere,” Victor smirks as he gets up and moves over to the sofa. “You’re angry with John. That’s alright, you know.” He holds a hand out and makes a beckoning motion. “It’s also alright to crave being touched. It’s necessary to survive, in fact, and you my friend are starving. I won’t try to make you talk,” he promises when Sherlock doesn’t respond.

 

Sherlock turns away and presses his palms to the table. He wants to storm into his room and slam the door. Wants to strip naked and climb into Victor’s lap and lose himself in the oxytocin high from glorious physical contact. He slams his fist down hard. He wants what Victor is offering, and he hates himself for it. There is a thrilling case right in front of him and all he can think of are fingers carding through his hair and damn it he hates this. _Hates it._

 

Victor gets up from the sofa and walks over to Sherlock. Runs a hand gently up his back and rubs light circles onto the nape of his neck. “It’s not weakness, you know, needing to be touched.”

 

Sherlock grits his teeth against the urge to lean back into the gentle brush of fingers. Even if it’s not weakness, it’s detrimental to his work. This is exactly why he remained celibate, alone, after Victor. He can’t _think_ like this. All he could think about that summer was what made him high on pleasure, what made Victor swear and fall apart, made Sherlock feel powerful and brilliant and wanted. He had to quit it like cocaine. It was the only way to function, to focus on his work.

 

Victor carefully slides his arms around Sherlock and hugs him gently. He rubs his cheek softly against Sherlock’s ear. “Please, Liam,” he whispers.

 

Sherlock’s resolve crumbles. _Liam._ Victor is the only one who has ever called him that, and even then only as a rare term of endearment since they never bothered with ridiculous pet names like ‘baby.’ He doesn’t trust his voice, so he simply nods and lets himself be led back over to the sofa. Victor lies down then pulls Sherlock against him. It’s a tight fit, but Victor manages to hook a leg over Sherlock’s and draw him in close against his chest. Sherlock is grateful to be facing away so Victor can’t see his likely embarrassing expression.

 

“I think we’re beyond the point of you being nervous about a simple cuddle, aren’t we? Relax,” Victor encourages. “That’s better,” he praises as he feels the the tension drain from Sherlock’s body.

 

Sherlock closes his eyes and lets himself drift. Just like with the drugs, at some point it’s useless to keep fighting the cravings. Part of the high, in fact, is that moment of surrender to illicit desire. He lets out a shaky breath. There is warm breath on his neck and warmth against his back, and warm hands are running soothingly up and down his body. He floats.

 

“Sherrrloooock,” Victor lilts, tickling the bit of exposed belly with the exact amount of pressure required to make his friend dissolve into rare laughter.

 

Sherlock jolts awake, laughs before he’s conscious of doing so, and promptly falls off of the sofa. “Ow! What just- Oh you insufferable arse,” Sherlock accuses as he sits up, though his voice lacks much of his usual venom.

 

“You’ve been snoring for an hour and my arm fell asleep,” Victor says, grinning unapologetically. “You look adorable right now, by the way.”

 

“I do not snore! And I’ve never looked adorable in my life,” Sherlock huffs as he attempts to straighten his hair.

 

“Oh I don’t know about that. I bet if I ask Mycroft he’d be more than willing to share photos of you as a chubby-faced three year old…” Victor dodges Sherlock’s attempt at a dramatic strangling and runs for the hallway. “You need to be faster than that old man!” he calls before diving into the washroom.

 

Sherlock sits back on the sofa and it takes him a moment to realize that he’s smiling. He feels out of practice. John used to make him smile all the time, he recalls. He’s glad Victor is here, but he can’t help wishing John were here instead.

 

“I’m going shopping,” Victor declares when he strides back into the living room. “I promised Mrs. Hudson we wouldn’t steal any more of her food as long as I’m here.”

 

“Don’t buy too much, I have an experiment taking up half of the ice box at the moment,” Sherlock warns as he snaps out of his reverie and wanders back over to the table to resume working on the case.

 

“Lovely. She warned me about that. I may wander around a bit as well, I haven’t been back for far too long.”

 

“Hmm,” Sherlock acknowledges, already lost in deductions because it’s either this or sitting around thinking about the utter lack of John in the flat. John who would probably say something accidentally important and help him focus on the details he’s missing. _No._ Focus on the work.

 

When Victor finally gets back it’s nearly dark. Sherlock merely nods at him and continues arguing loudly with the detective from New York who was in charge of the double homicide. She’s like a less tractable Lestrade, but she’s finally coming around to Sherlock’s view of things and is taking notes on the importance of humidity levels and the facts which point to a murder-suicide. She agrees to look into it quietly then re-open the case if Sherlock is right. Sherlock suspects it will be open by the following morning, and closed again by the end of the day. Maybe next time she’ll take Sherlock’s call without hanging up on him three times first.

 

“Having fun?” Victor asks when Sherlock finally ends the call. He’s in the process of cutting up vegetables for pizza toppings.

 

“If you’re fishing for a compliment regarding your gift-giving skills it’s not going to work,” Sherlock replies, basking in the euphoria of a newly solved case. “Pizza? I see you still haven’t learned to cook,” he comments as he walks over and steals an olive.   

 

“As far as I’m concerned, god created pre-fab food because he loves us and wants us to be happy. Who am I to reject such a gift?” Victor winks playfully. “I was gone longer than I’d planned, but I figured you wouldn’t notice. I’m assuming you still do that thing where you don’t even know the world is still turning while you’re caught up in something that interests you.”

 

Sherlock hums noncommittally. “You’re the first person who never got irritated about that.”

 

“If I guess the second on the first try, do I win a prize?” Victor asks, and then ducks a flying mushroom.

 

“Ah, the rare and elusive playful Sherlock! You’re in a good mood, excellent. I bought _The Usual Suspects,_ want to watch it and explain why all the characters are idiots and which actors were getting along or caught up in sordid affairs, like old times?”

 

Surprisingly, Sherlock finds that he does. Sometimes John let him do that, and sometimes he got cross and threw pillows when Sherlock ruined the plot twists. Maybe he should text John and let him know what they’re up to, ask if he wants to join. A malicious part of him hopes it would make John jealous. But then, that didn’t seem to work with Janine. Not that John was meant to be jealous about the kissing, just the fact of her presence in the flat, though he did seem oddly disconcerted about the kissing…

 

“Earth to Sherlock!” Victor calls, snapping his fingers.  

 

“What? Yes. Movie, let’s do that.” He picks up the dvd from the counter and goes to unbury the TV from behind a stack of books.

 

They eat pizza and watch the movie, and when they’re finished eating Sherlock doesn’t bother resisting being pulled in to rest against Victor’s chest. He even allows himself to be fed bits of popcorn between rants directed at characters, actors, and the director alike. It’s nice. Comfortable. He allows himself to imagine for a moment that it’s John feeding him, and is suddenly grateful Victor can’t see his lap easily because the thought is anything but _comfortable._

 

“You need a shower before we share a bed again,” Victor pronounces after he turns the TV off. “I’ll meet you in bed once you’re finished.” He prods Sherlock to get up and gives him a gentle shove in the direction of the washroom.

 

“You do realize there is an entire empty bedroom if my personal hygiene offends you,” Sherlock retorts, then mentally smacks himself for sounding so irritated because he doesn’t actually _mind_ sharing a bed.

 

“Don’t worry, once John gets back I’ll insist on using it so he has to choose between your bed and the sofa. If he chooses wrong, I’ll arrange a convenient accident involving the dubious experiments in your ice box and said sofa. But until then, you’re stuck with me. I’m emotionally secure with being your practice cuddler so you aren’t so awkward with him,” Victor replies easily.

 

“I’m an excellent cuddler,” Sherlock protests. Well, at least he used to be. Possibly he’s not as certain of what to do with his hands as he was by the end of that summer with Victor, but surely he’s not _awkward._ Though John is probably an expert cuddler, he considers before the realization of how bizarre this entire train of thought is registers. One day and Victor has already reduced him to a sentimental prat. The man is insidious.  

 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Victor calls as Sherlock shuts the washroom door.

 

As Sherlock showers he tries to organize his riotous thoughts, but it isn’t working. His transport is faulty. He keeps returning to thoughts of John, of what it would be like for John to want to touch him as much as Victor seems to. Emotions are seeping beneath the doors of his mind palace and he can’t seem to stop them. Frustration at John’s absence and anger at himself for driving him away vie for dominance and he has to dig his nails into his thighs against the cutting sense of loss. And _Victor_. Showing up with no warning after so many years, making him _want_ things he’d worked so hard not to want.

 

Sherlock slides down the wall of the shower and pulls his knees up. Thinks about Victor waiting for him in his bed, about the devastatingly addictive sensation of being held. About John, too far away on Lestrade’s sofa. Thinks about all the times John touched him. Casual touches around the flat, running hand-in-hand, John guiding him to bed when he’d been awake too long, the thrill of a hand on his knee during the stag night, lying pressed up against him on the stairs, a hug at the wedding. He wonders what would happen if it were John in his bed. Wants it so badly it’s a jagged-edged ache. He presses a few fingers to the scar tissue covering the bullet’s entry wound. Doesn’t taste salt in the cascading water. _Doesn’t._

 

The cool water stops beating down on his equally cool skin. Warm hands lift him up, wrap a towel around him. Steady arms encircle him, hold him close. A soft voice in his ear. _“I’ve got you,_

_Liam, it’s going to be alright. Shhh, shhh…_ ” Not John then, Victor. Sherlock wants to say he knows a lie when he hears it, that he doesn’t need to be shushed like a child, but he’s shivering and his muscles won’t cooperate so he allows himself to be led into the bedroom. Dried off. Pulled down between the covers and up onto Victor’s bare chest.

 

Victor strokes Sherlock’s wet hair and tucks the covers around them tighter. “You don’t have to talk right now. I’m no therapist Sherlock, I’m just trying to help you and all I can think to do is hold you. I just...all I have is that one summer for a frame of reference and you loved this so much. I’ve never known anyone else to respond so beautifully to being touched. You _need_ it, especially now when you’re hurting. And I know you don’t want it from me, not really, but until we can get you and John talking again, together again in some way, I just...I think you need this, but you have to tell me if I’m wrong. I don’t want to force you- take advantage of you when you’re-”

 

“You’re not,” Sherlock manages. Talking still feels like it requires monumental effort. “Stay,” he adds. Wriggles in closer, lets out a calming breath. Quite possibly this is a mistake, letting himself indulge in what Victor is offering. It’s only going to make things worse when he leaves, but it feels so incredibly good and he’s never been terribly successful at denying himself the things he wants. He can feel his body starting to calm down from what was likely some form of panic attack, and he’s suddenly so very, very tired.

 

“As long as you need me. Though at some point Ryan is going to finish his statue and have the presence of mind to really notice I’ve gone- apparently I have a type- so if we’re looking at years we’re going to need a bigger flat with a bigger bed. He would happily adopt you like a puppy and wander London for inspiration, and the place would be a disaster of half-finished art and experiments,” Victor teases.

 

Sherlock snorts out a half-laugh, thinks a rare _thank you_ , and closes his eyes.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit on the short side, but there is mind palace sex so hopefully that makes up for it! Thank you all for reading and making me feel welcome in the fandom! 
> 
> Lots of love to Hedwig-Dordt and to Snogandagrope, who has joined the team of editors/author-wranglers to make sure this story stays on track and is as amazing as possible! They have both spent many hours on this as well, so feel free to send them love here or via tumblr : )

When Sherlock jolts awake he’s tangled in the sheets and fighting someone off, and it it takes him a good ten seconds to realize it’s Victor and the choked sound of someone trying not to scream is emanating from his own throat. His heartbeat is a loud rushing roar in his ears and his skin is covered in a sheen of sweat.  

 

“Breathe. Just breathe, it was only a dream,” Victor soothes, his arms held up defensively against Sherlock’s mindless attack. “You’re okay. You’re home in your bed. It’s just me.”

 

Sherlock feels a sick sense of shame. “My apologies. I’ll go sleep on the sofa. We won’t try this again,” he says in a ragged voice as he moves to get out of bed.

 

Victor grabs Sherlock’s wrist. “You’re not going anywhere. It’s fine. You didn’t hurt me.”

 

“This time. I thought the nightmares had stopped, but clearly I was wrong.” He tugs at Victor’s grip.

 

“What were you dreaming about?” Victor asks, ignoring Sherlock’s attempt at escape.

 

“Fluffy bunnies,” Sherlock snarks, frowning when Victor wraps a hand gently around his other wrist as well.

 

“Must’ve been the Monty Python variety,” Victor comments, rubbing his thumbs in circles and trying to lighten the mood. “You were dreaming about when you were taking Moriarty’s network apart, weren’t you? Mycroft told me what was going on when he got you out. If I see him I’m going to punch him, by the way. Which is totally different from John punching you, because I I’ve never professed to love your brother.”

 

“For that I might actually invite him around,” Sherlock muses, indulging in the mental image for a moment.

 

“Lie back down. Tell me,” Victor encourages, stretching out and pulling a cautious Sherlock down with him.

 

Sherlock is certain Victor doesn’t know what he’s asking for. There are horrors shut behind that door of his mind palace. Terrible things, made all the more terrible for how much he doesn’t regret doing them. “Unlikely. I haven’t had good sleep or good sex, and you’ve made it clear that last one isn’t going to happen. Unfortunately, the window of pliant Sherlock is closed.” He turns to face the door and Victor immediately spoons up behind him, holding him gently in place.

 

“Oh Sherlock, why would I need to give you good sex _now_ when we’ve had plenty of good sex in the past?” Victor asks, his voice that particular brand of dark and low that used to make Sherlock shiver with anticipation.

 

“We’ve had plenty of awful sex as well, what’s your point?” Sherlock asks, surprised at how badly he suddenly wants to arch back into Victor’s body and lose himself in whatever distraction he is offering.

 

“God, that’s true. I wish I had your ability to delete memories because we were just awkward for a while there. And some of those experiments don’t bear thinking about. Ever.” He shudders. “I’m asking for a lot from you I know, so I need something special...Right. The last night we spent together. Don’t even pretend that summer doesn’t have an entire wing in your mind palace, likely with a room for each variety of sex act. Go find it. Our last night Sherlock, the night we finally got everything right. When being tied up and marked was a _good_ thing.” He kisses a scar on Sherlock’s shoulder blade and waits.

 

Sherlock’s breath hitches as he realizes what Victor is suggesting. He’s used this technique for masturbation in the past, when the need for sexual release interfered with his ability to focus on the work. But he’s never gone back to that memory. Now that Victor is here with him though… He does as he’s asked. He pauses in front of the door then enters. It’s only a single room, but it’s definitely a large one. The walls are lined with DVD cases. He pulls one out. “I have it. Now what?”

 

“Now you let the memory play, and I help you through it.” Victor takes Sherlock’s hand and guides it down suggestively, then moves his own back up to stroke Sherlock’s stomach and chest lightly. “I want you to begin when you came home that evening. You walked in the door and I was sitting there with supper waiting on the table. There was a pillow on the floor next to me…”

 

 _Sherlock stepped inside, intending to tell Victor he’d finally discovered where the pigeons had nested and that they really do feed their babies milk, when the scene he encountered derailed his thoughts._ Oh, yes. _Victor was leaving for New York the following day, and he’d apparently decided on giving Sherlock something to remember him by._

 

_Victor smiled and beckoned Sherlock over, pointed to the cushion on the floor. Sherlock walked over and knelt down, leaned his head on Victor’s thigh, sighed and felt himself slipping into a deliciously contented state. They'd played this both ways, but this dynamic felt better. Victor’s hand slipped into his hair and scratched gently for a few moments before vanishing. Sherlock looked up expectantly, and was rewarded with a single piece of sauce-coated tortellini. He took it carefully, then licked the sauce off of Victor’s fingers._

 

_“That’s perfect, Liam. You’re perfect. I’m going to give you a night to remember me by. Would you like that?”_

 

“Yes,” _Sherlock replied, greedy for another memory to store away._

 

_Victor fed him another bite, his eyes projecting a complicated mix of sadness and anticipation. Maybe love, but not the kind the poets write about. He slowly fed Sherlock the entire plate between soft caresses, and periodically lowered a glass of wine down to Sherlock’s lips._

 

 _“Come to bed,” Victor finally said, walking slowly over to the doorway to the bedroom while Sherlock crawled beside him. Then he climbed up onto the bed and waited for Sherlock to join him. “Undress,_ ” _Victor ordered, his voice shaking with nervous anticipation despite his attempt to sound confident._

 

_Sherlock knew this was still too new to be entirely comfortable, but that only added to the excitement of it. He undressed slowly, as seductively as he knew how, and reveled in the knowledge of being important enough to make Victor bite his lip, his eyes blow wide with desire even after all these months. Once he was naked he cocked his head and asked, “What now, sir?” Victor’s shudder of arousal was a heady thing. They’d laughed over the word while reading up on this sort of encounter, and Sherlock had never used it before. Maybe it wasn’t so ridiculous after all, if it made Victor react like that._

 

“ _Now I kiss you,”_ _Victor breathed, pulling Sherlock against him and immediately licking into his mouth._

 

_It clearly wasn’t what he’d been planning, but Sherlock wasn’t complaining. He smiled into the kiss and undulated his hips shamelessly against Victor’s clothed body._

 

Sherlock makes an embarrassing sort of whine and wraps a hand around his growing erection. “You always did like it when I was naked and you weren’t,” Sherlock murmurs, then hisses when Victor pinches his left nipple.

 

“Maybe I still do,” Victor points out, wrapping his clothed legs more firmly around Sherlock’s bare ones. “Where are we?”

 

“I’m about to undress you.”

 

“Getting to the good part then. Off you go,” Victor encourages, kissing the back of Sherlock’s neck.

 

_Victor finally pulled away and ran a finger down Sherlock’s jaw. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “Now undress me.”_

 

_Sherlock blushed and obeyed, pushing Victor back onto the bed and kissing every bit of newly exposed skin as his friend squirmed and swore beneath him. It was incredible. Once he was finished Victor rolled away and knelt up on the bed. “I want your mouth on me. Slowly. I don’t want to come until I’m inside of you.”_

 

_Sherlock scrambled to do as he was asked, brought himself up onto his hands and knees and guided Victor’s erection down into his mouth. He knew how much Victor enjoyed watching him like this. He was so caught up in the slide of slick skin against his soft palate that he actually pulled away and hissed in surprise at the deliciously unexpected drag of pain down his back._

 

 _“Is this okay?_ ” _Victor asked, sounding suddenly uncertain._

 

 _“God yes. Please,” Sherlock added, knowing how much his rare use of the word ‘please’ affected Victor. “I’m ready now. You just surprised me._ ” _He returned to memorizing the feeling of Victor in his mouth, the taste, the smell. How devastatingly good it was._

 

_Victor dragged the tines of the fork carefully over the pale skin of Sherlock’s back, leaving a series of slightly raised welts in their wake. They didn’t have any of the fancy toys they’d read about, so they’d learned to make do. The fork was especially effective for reducing Sherlock to a state of blissful surrender, and Victor liked that he didn’t have to worry about hurting him too badly._

 

_Sherlock moaned and arched into the pain, loving how it set his nerves on fire and made him feel shockingly alive. He licked and sucked gently, knowing exactly how much Victor could take before tipping over the edge into actual orgasm. By the time Victor pulled away his entire body was singing, and he allowed himself to be guided down onto his back easily. The sting of the throbbing marks against the blanket was glorious._

 

_“Arms up,” Victor urged, then moved up to straddle Sherlock’s chest. He rubbed the tip of his spit-slicked cock across Sherlock’s lips and groaned, “fuck but you’re perfect,” as Sherlock sucked on head. He tied the strips of cloth already attached to the bed around Sherlock’s wrists, indulged in the sensation of being sucked for another few moments, then slid down far enough to tie another strip of cloth over Sherlock’s eyes before moving back between his legs. “Still okay?” he asked._

 

_“You know I have no problem telling you when something isn’t working for me,” Sherlock growled impatiently. “Now I thought you were going to impress me.” He was already impressed, but he knew goading Victor was always a sure way to a spectacular orgasm. The blindfold was an especially nice touch, something they’d only recently discovered. The fewer senses Sherlock had at his disposal, the easier it was for him to let his mind relax and just enjoy the experience._

 

_“Trust me, even if you weren’t you you’d remember this for the rest of your life,” Victor stated confidently as he dragged his nails, allowed to grow longer than he typically preferred specifically because Sherlock liked them so much, down the sensitive skin of Sherlock’s sides. He leaned down to suck gently on one pert nipple. Conflicting sensations, that was the key. The lack of a discernible pattern Sherlock could predict._

 

_“Promise?” Sherlock asked, a bit too much honesty slipping into his voice. He wasn’t ready to face how much he was going to miss his friend._

 

_“Promise,” Victor replied, wrapping a gentle hand around Sherlock’s length as he bit his shoulder hard enough to bruise._

 

“You were right. I didn’t forget,” Sherlock whispers, then bites back a whimper when Victors hand covers his own and begins to guide it up and down in a maddeningly slow pace over his erection. It’s shockingly intense.

 

“Neither did I,” Victor admits. He kisses Sherlock’s shoulder. “Go on, finish. I’ve got you.”

 

_After that Sherlock, amazingly, had lost the ability to speak. All he could do was arch up into the lovely bites, the scratches, the soft kisses and gentle stroking of fingers against his skin. Victor didn’t seem to want to leave any inch of his skin untouched. It was maddening. Perfect. Then Sherlock felt a pillow sliding beneath his lower back and the warm press of Victor’s tongue against the sensitive tissue of his anus and he nearly lost the ability to breathe as well. Victor had only done this once before, and didn’t seem to enjoy it as much as Sherlock did._

 

_“You’re amazing, Liam. You are,” Victor praised between licks. “I want you to believe it. For me.”_

 

Sherlock’s eyes fly open. He knew there was a reason he’d never revisited this memory, but he’d deleted why. _This_ is why. “Wait, no, I forgot that part. I can’t- Victor-”

 

“What’s wrong? Where are you?” Victor asks, stilling his hand.

 

“You were about to enter me. You were _saying_ things.”

 

“You forgot the exact part I wanted you to remember? Why would you- ah. Why wouldn’t you? Keep going Liam, please. For me, please,” Victor encourages, guiding Sherlock’s hand back into motion again.

 

Sherlock both wants to and doesn’t. Fights it. Hopes he loses. He pushes up helplessly into the circle of their hands. He needs... _yes, that, god._ He shivers as Victor bites the junction of his neck and shoulder and doesn’t let go. Lets himself drop back into the memory.

 

 _Victor pressed one lube-coated thumb- the nails of those digits were always kept short expressly for this purpose- inside of him slowly. Achingly so. “You’re brilliant, and funny, and loyal, and also an absolute arse but definitely_ not _a sociopath.” He slipped his other thumb inside, pulled them apart, slid his tongue between them._

 

_Sherlock had never felt quite so...cherished. He felt overwhelmed and confused. Didn’t know why such lovely words should make his chest tighten and his eyes burn. He couldn’t respond, just writhed and whimpered and tugged at his bonds and wished Victor would just push inside of him so he didn’t feel so far away._

 

_Victor seemed to sense his sudden need. “Relax, beautiful,” he soothed as he situated himself then pressed inside slowly, but without stopping, just the way Sherlock loved it._

 

_Sherlock grabbed the loose ends of the cloth and tugged hard, releasing the knots so he could reach down to grab Victor’s hips and pull him in closer, deeper. He relished the pain, his body’s struggle to accept the intrusion, the complicated process of ‘Wrong. No, right...very right.’ Then Victor’s hands were in his hair and he was being kissed and filled and needed and oh, nothing could compare to this. No high. No unsolved mystery. Nothing._

 

_“You’re so good, you’re perfect, fuck but I’m going to miss you,” Victor panted, punctuating each word with a fluid thrust of his hips until Sherlock’s head was banging into the headboard. He immediately tangled his hands in Sherlock’s hair to absorb the blows himself._

 

 _You. Miss_ you _, not miss_ this, _Sherlock marvelled. He dragged his fingers down Victor’s back and shifted his legs to drape them over Victor’s shoulders and it was perfect. Too much. He couldn’t stop the spiraling pleasure and came as close to screaming into Victor’s mouth as he ever had as his orgasm sparked across his nervous system, igniting the pleasure centers of his brain._

 

Sherlock bites his lip hard and comes, pressing back into the grounding sting Victor’s teeth on his shoulder as the air leaves his lungs like a gut punch. Sated, he lets the memory finish.

 

_Victor gave a few more erratic thrusts then bit Sherlock’s lip and shuddered his way through his own orgasm. He collapsed against Sherlock’s chest a few moments later, sliding out with a final little gasp of pleasure._

 

_Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the sensation of warmth leaking down his thigh, but since he was too contented to complain about it this time, he just kissed the top of Victor’s head and let himself enjoy the blissful afterglow._

 

_“Figures we’d finally get it perfect right before I leave,” Victor sighed a few minutes later. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked down at Sherlock. Brushed an errant curl out of his eyes. Kissed his nose lightly. “I love you, you know.”_

 

_Sherlock’s eyes widened and he felt a sense of panic. “Victor, I- I don’t-”_

 

 _“Calm down you brilliant idiot. I’m not_ in love _with you, you know that. Sometimes I wish I could be, because in many ways we make so much sense. And you’re not in love with me either, I know. Still, is it weird to be jealous of the man you eventually do fall for? He’s a lucky bastard, even if he doesn’t know it yet.”_

 

 _Sherlock simply stared. He tried to think of something equally touching to say, but he was too busy processing the fact that Victor_ loved _him._

 

_“Christ you’re bad at this,” Victor laughed. “I suddenly feel less jealous of your future partner. The correct response to ‘I love you’ is, ‘I love you too.’”_

 

_Sherlock continued to stare._

 

_“It’s okay, I know you love me. But that’s only because I know you so well. Possibly you should be a bit more clear with future Mr. Lucky.”_

 

Sherlock drifts slowly back to reality, and doesn’t know what to say.  

 

“I’ll be right back,” Victor promises as he slips away and pads off to the washroom. He returns with a warm cloth, which he uses to wipe off Sherlock’s chest and stomach. “Are you okay?” He runs a finger over the bite mark.

 

“Any therapist would tell you no,” Sherlock says as Victor settles back next to him and Sherlock tucks himself into his arms. “I do feel better now though. Are you okay?” he asks, glancing at the obvious bulge beneath Victor’s soft pajama bottoms.

 

“Don’t worry about it. Unavoidable reaction after I just watched a gorgeous man come while biting his neck, I’m afraid. John is a lucky man, especially if he ever gets to see you like this. More on that later though. Now that you’re pliant, tell me about those two missing years.”

 

Sherlock does. Once he starts, he talks for hours. About the anger, the fear, the hatred. The pervasive loneliness. About the kidnappings, both the ones he committed and was a victim of. Of the pain he caused, the pain he experienced. The people he contrived to have killed, and the one he shot himself. About bribery and blackmailing, and pretending to be so many people he nearly forgot who he really was. About wanting to call John so badly it hurt, but being afraid to. Afraid John would come find him. Afraid he wouldn’t. About Mycroft bringing him home. About his grave human error, and what he’d come home to. By the time he’s done talking the sun is nearly rising.

 

Through it all, Victor doesn’t say a word. He just runs his fingers over Sherlock’s skin and listens. When Sherlock finally falls silent he pulls Sherlock’s hands to his lips and kisses each palm. “Thank you for telling me, Liam,” is all he says. “Now sleep.”

 

Sherlock does.   

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well since it's Valentine's day I may as well post this now, in case other people are spending the day or evening hanging out with themselves and fanfiction as well : ) I'm working my 11 hr. shift today, so I won't be able to reply to comments until the kid is in bed tonight but I still appreciate all of them! Hope you are all having a wonderful day lovelies!
> 
> So many continued thanks to Hedwig-Dordt and Snogandagrope for all of their help and guidance and general author wrangling!! I love you two ladies especially!

Sherlock wakes to fingers brushing the hair away from his face, followed by the faint click of a picture being taken and a quiet giggle that historically can't mean anything good. "You should know that when I say I will poison your tea I'm not joking," he mumbles.

 

"Worth it. You looked too adorable not to capture the moment for posterity. I'm considering sending it to John and seeing how long it takes him to show up, because now that I think about it this is really more debauched than adorable,” Victor muses as he examines his mobile.

 

“John owns a gun, and he’s been known to use it. Just something to remember if you’re considering trying to make him jealous.”

 

“I’m glad you’re coming around to the fact that he _would_ be jealous,” Victor comments with a knowing grin.

 

Sherlock rolls onto his back and stretches, catlike. The sheet slips down below his navel as he blinks up at Victor sleepily. He keeps his face innocently neutral, but he knows exactly how good he looks. Victor won’t mind the tease, and he’d forgotten the delicious sort of power stemming from making another person’s breath hitch.   

 

Victor runs a finger down Sherlock’s chest. “Damn, but you’re gorgeous. I should’ve gotten a video of _that_. You’re lucky I’m happily married, or John would have an actual reason to be jealous.”

 

Sherlock drops the act and says seriously, “The problem is, I’ve no idea if he’d be jealous just because you’re here with me and he isn’t, or because he wishes he’d been the one to give me this.” Sherlock presses a few fingers against the bruise left by Victor’s teeth.

 

“Both, I’d say. Why don’t you just ask him?”

 

“Oh, that would go over well. I’ll just text him and ask if he minds the fact that you helped me get off last night enough to come do it himself, shall I?”

“I think that would be a more effective technique than this ridiculous communication blackout you two have going,” Victor replies. “I’m glad you told me everything, truly I am, and I’m honored that you trust me with all of it. But you really need to tell him as well.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t feel like having this conversation. “About that tea. We should really have some. Not poisoned, of course.” He scrambles out of bed, remembers he’s naked, shrugs, then drags the entire sheet with him as he flees. He feels a bit less like there is a wool blanket trapped between his skin and muscle today, but he doesn’t want to go as far as telling Victor he was _right_ about the hours spent talking about those missing years. The man is smug enough as it is. Best not to encourage him.

 

“Lunch as well please! I bought sandwich makings,” Victor calls after Sherlock. He ignores the grumbled reply and begins a text to Lestrade.   

 

When Victor finally wanders out of the bedroom, Sherlock is sitting at the table engrossed in another of the cold case files. A half-eaten sandwich is sitting next to him. Victor looks around the kitchen and finds only a cooling mug of tea. “What happened to my sandwich?” he asks, not sounding particularly surprised at not finding one waiting.

 

“Nothing at all. It’s there, it just hasn’t yet evolved from its natural state of bread, meat, and mayonnaise as separate entities,” Sherlock replies, his tone distinctly scientific though he can’t prevent the slight upward curve one corner of his mouth as he takes in Victor’s artificial pout.

 

“Damn I’m good. Not even two whole days and I’ve managed to return you to the snarky arsehole-with-a-heart-of-gold I know and love,” Victor declares as he begins making his own sandwich. “Lestrade says he’s invited Molly to come along to the pub tonight. Apparently she can’t wait to meet me.”

 

“Of course not. She probably just wants to ask you what I’m like in bed. You know, maybe I should come along-”

 

“Oh no! This is the first honorary meeting of the ‘we want to shake John and Sherlock until they pull their heads out of their arses and admit they want to shag each other silly because at this point it’s physically painful to watch’ club. We’re thinking about having t-shirts designed.”

 

“I’m not sure all of that would fit,” Sherlock gripes. He doesn’t love the idea of his friends getting together and trying to sort out his life. “And all of you are just fine with the idea of ignoring the existence of Mary? Looks like I’m not the only arsehole around.”

 

Victor pauses and walks up behind Sherlock. He leans down and wraps his arms around his friend’s chest and rests his chin on one tense shoulder. “I’m sorry, it’s mean to joke about this. No one’s ignoring Mary, I promise. I just want to get your friends’ perspectives on everything. When I set my sights on wanting something I turn into an insensitive jerk, you know that about me. You like it about me, actually, when I’m not honing in on you. I’m calculating and I manipulate people and situations alike, and while I’m sure I _could_ change we both know I won’t. I’m rather like you that way.”

 

Sherlock snorts derisively and pointedly doesn’t relax into Victor’s touch.

 

“If you tell me not to go I won’t.” Victor turns his head to kiss the soft skin beneath Sherlock’s ear. “Can I really make it any worse though?” He stands and begins massaging Sherlock’s shoulders.

 

“I know exactly what you’re doing and I want you to know it’s only working because I’m letting you win,” Sherlock declares as he gives up and relaxes into the pressure. He tries not to moan, because It feels impossibly good. “You’ve gotten better at this.”

 

“Ryan’s shoulders are always tight since he paints so much, and lately he’s taken to chiseling away at ridiculously large blocks of marble. I get plenty of practice.”

 

“Keep going and I’ll go over the stock reports with you and deduce what you should buy. Who knows, maybe there’s another Google out there. I could use the funds, I spent most of it on clothes for years but carting about the globe under assumed identities used up the last of it, since you were wondering.”

 

“I knew it! You never needed a flatmate, you were just lonely.”

 

“Shut up or I’ll reconsider,” Sherlock warns.

 

They end up spending the afternoon sitting on the couch, thighs pressed together as they argue over which stocks to buy and sell while Sherlock explains which companies will succeed based on complicated deductions such as the fading bee population and the shifting weather patterns over Asia. In the end Victor gives up trying to understand and just goes with it. They manage to come out well ahead, and Victor transfers a cut into Sherlock’s account as promised with assurances he will continue receiving a cut as the stocks rise over time. Victor then leaves Sherlock with the dubious task of making pasta while he goes to shower.

 

“Huh, it doesn’t smell like anything’s burnt. Impressive,” Victor comments as he walks back into the sitting room wearing dark jeans and a black cashmere jumper.

 

“I’m a chemist, Victor. I can manage spaghetti bolognese,” Sherlock replies in irritation. Why does no one think he’s capable of feeding himself? He takes in Victor’s outfit. “On second thought, Molly may simply transfer her affections to you. You may want to bring up the happily married bit early on.”

 

“Why Sherlock, are you saying I look hot?” Victor teases, sitting in the empty chair in front of his plate and leaning back with his legs spread in a modelesque pose.

 

Sherlock gives Victor an unimpressed look. “I’m saying you look like you’re trying to impress someone, and I doubt it’s me.”

 

“Well...Greg _may_ have mentioned that John expressed curiosity about what exactly an ex of yours would look like, so he offered to take a picture. I gather it was a stilted conversation full of John furiously trying not to act as green-eyed as he actually is.”

 

Sherlock smirks. “In that case, you should mess your hair up a bit more.”

 

As soon as Victor heads out for the evening, Sherlock picks up his violin for the first time since the wedding. He needs to think. Victor and company will be discussing how to get John to move back in here until John inevitably moves back in with Mary. It will probably work, but John won’t show up for a few days at least because he’s stubborn like that. Once John is back, Victor will make certain he knows exactly how much Sherlock wants him. But he knows John, and _even if-_ just for the sake of indulging in a mental exercise- John actually _does_ want to take him over the back of his chair, he would never do it without Mary’s consent. He’s loyal like that. Sherlock works his way through Paginini’s Caprice No.15 in E minor and goes over what he knows about Mary.

 

An hour later he finally sets down the instrument, settles into his chair, and composes a text to Mary. Best to first establish if she is ready to engage in conversation.

 

_Have you heard from John? - SH_

 

The reply comes less than a minute later. _No. I’m assuming you haven’t either if you’re asking._

 

Excellent, she’s willing to talk. She’s a woman, and he’s been led to believe that women like to have actual conversations as opposed to exchanging a few short sentences. It seems like a needless excess, but he’d best try since he wants this to go well.   _No. Let’s just avoid all of the social niceties normal people engage in, shall we? Lestrade wants his sofa back so John will end up back here soon. He’s clearly still upset at you for shooting me.-SH_

 

_I thought you disliked when people state the obvious. Get to the point, please._

 

Sherlock takes a deep breath, hopes he’s deduced her reasoning correctly, and types: _He’s upset at me too or he would return on his own. He’s hurt and we’re to blame. Despite the fact we did what we did because neither of us could stand to lose him. –SH_

 

_I do like how direct you are. And I am sorry for shooting you. It wasn’t my best laid plan._

 

Sherlock smiles and remembers why he gets along better with Mary than most women. _If our positions had been reversed and I thought I could keep John from getting hurt and catching me in a lie that would mean I’d lose him, I would’ve shot you too.- SH_

 

_I believe it._

 

_We’re neither of us particularly good people. I lied to him for years. So did you.- SH_

_Because we couldn’t stand to lose him. I think we understand each other in a way John never will._

 

On that point, Sherlock agrees with her. It’s likely no one aside apart from them will ever comprehend why they like each other despite their complicated history. _That’s because he’s better than us. He’s better than we deserve.- SH_

 

_He is. In fairness, I’d have pulled that stunt in the empty house if our positions were reversed as well. Neither of us behaves rationally when it comes to him. We need to do better, Sherlock._

 

At least she’s with him on that point as well. _I’m aware. That’s why I’m going to ensure he gets you back. –SH_

 

_I’m sure you can see that he returns to me, but let’s be honest and admit he’ll never be completely happy apart from you. You love him. I love him. Keeping up with ignoring niceties...exactly how long have you wanted him in your bed?_

 

Sherlock feels a tendril of anxiety settle in his stomach. _Don’t worry. I know it’s unlikely he wants me like that.- SH_

 

_Of course he does. He has good taste in men. Now I’d very much like you two to work out that sexual tension so we can move on to the next logical step._

 

Sherlock gapes at his mobile. He hadn’t expected her to suggest what she seems to be suggesting. He’d calculated it would take much more convincing over time. _To be clear, you’re asking me to have sexual relations with your husband. –SH_

 

_I’m asking you to let him fuck you senseless, yes. He needs you. He wants me. We both need and want him. Are you seeing where I’m going with this?_

 

Sherlock gapes at his mobile some more. Tries to come up with an acceptable reply.

 

_I’ve shocked you into silence. I’m going to take that as a compliment. I know what I’m suggesting isn’t considered normal, but I’ve been thinking about it for weeks and I think it can work._

_In fact I think it’s the only way it can work. We can discuss all of this later, the three of us. At length._

 

Sherlock continues trying to come up with a reply but his mind is running off in a dozen new directions.

 

_I realize you two need to work a lot of things out and learn to be lovers instead of just friends, but he was happier whenever we were all together. I was happier. But he loves me as well. Please don’t take him from me._

 

Sherlock knows that’s not going to happen. His snap reaction is, rather surprisingly, that he doesn’t even want to. _I could never take anything he wants from him. Not again. – SH_

 

_You’re a better person that I am, Sherlock. You boys have fun. Feel free to take videos and send them along to me : ) I’ll let John know he has my blessing, though I’m not sure he’ll respond or believe me. He hasn’t replied to any of my texts yet._

 

_I’ll see that he does. I don’t know what else to say. Does one say thank you in a situation like this?- SH_

 

_I can just picture the look on your face right now, and in my mind it’s adorable. Let me know how it goes- in detail please- or if I need to come over there and mash your faces together myself. Good night, Sherlock._

 

Sherlock feels a rush of affection for her. _Good night, Mary. - SH_

 

Sherlock sets his mobile down and picks his violin back up and begin’s Mendelssohn’s Lied Ohne Worte No. 7 In E Flat Major. He needs to re-organize his entire existence to allow for new data.

 

“That was incredible,” Victor praises when Sherlock finally sets his violin carefully back into its case.

 

Sherlock startles. “When did you get back?”

 

“Nearly an hour ago, but you were too caught up to notice. If you play like that for John and he’s managed not to jump you yet, he’s got an epic ability to resist temptation. You must _seriously_ have convinced him you’re not interested in sex, and he must _seriously_ respect that because damn...the way you look when you play…”

 

“Sometimes he would ask me to play for him. He’d close his eyes for most of it, but sometimes I’d catch him watching me with this especially complicated expression and...Oh. _Oh.”_  One last deduction clicks into place. Sherlock flings himself onto the sofa and rests his head on Victor’s thigh. “There is a possibility I’ve been very stupid.”

 

“I’d call it a certainty,” Victor declares as he begins carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

 

Sherlock leans into the grounding touch. “Well no one’s ever been in love with me before, have they? How was I supposed to know what it looks like? But I’ve seen John looking at Mary exactly like he looked at me, sometimes. We talked, by the way, Mary and I. She says I should let him fuck me senseless. Also, I need to google polyamory.”

 

Victor’s fingers still in the tangle of Sherlock’s hair. “Well then. Your evening _was_ productive. On paper I admit it’s the perfect solution, but that’s going to take an awful lot of communication from a group of people with the most serious communication issues I’ve ever heard of. I mean _seriously_ Sherlock, there’s more withholding of information going on here than on the trading floor of the New York Stock Exchange.”

 

Sherlock glares up at Victor. “Yes, because stating the obvious is the most helpful course of action right now.”

 

“Oh, you wanted _help_. Would you mind repeating that? I just want to be sure I have this moment memorized.”

 

“I loathe you,” Sherlock grumbles. “Now keep petting, it helps me think.”

 

Victor resumes playing with Sherlock’s hair. “I’ll be sure to relate that information to John,” he smirks. “Okay, helpful...let me deduce this situation…”

 

“Oh, this ought to be good.”

 

“Hush you, I’m working here.” Victor lays a finger across Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock licks it. “Oh, very mature. I deduce- roll your eyes again and I’ll stop, you arse- that you are terrified. I deduce, from Lestrade’s description of your relationship with John and the fact that Lestrade has threatened to chuck his mobile out the window if he keeps staring at it and sighing- that John is terrified as well. Likely him more than you, since he’s thinking he has to choose between you and Mary and he wants to choose you, but he also doesn’t want to lose her. Or the baby. That kid is making an even bigger mess of things, really. Speaking of which, I deduce that you will annoy the shit out of its parents by becoming an overeducated prat on things like developmental milestones and ear infections alike.”

 

“There’s nothing wrong with knowing things! This much stress in the first trimester already poses a risk of-”

 

“Oh my god, you _have_ been thinking about it!” Victor interjects.

 

“Not on purpose! The information is just _in there_ and my mind is a mess lately and I couldn’t help it!”

 

“Well, that’s good I suppose seeing as John does come with a child attached now. Sherlock...do you actually _like_ Mary, or are you just protective of her because she’s carrying something that will one day become precious to John?”

 

“A reasonable deduction given the data you’re equipped with, but wrong. I like her very much. It would be simpler if did not.”

 

“Wait, you like her, or you _like_ her?”

 

“What are you, twelve? I’ve no interest in her sexually if that’s what you’re asking. She’s just interesting. Complicated. Lovely. Yes she’s done what most people would consider to be terrible things, and she manipulates and she won’t hesitate to destroy anyone or anything in the way of getting what she wants, but that describes me as well. It just so happens that what she wants is John. She wants them to be happy, and she was acting in a way she believed would ensure their happiness, and I can understand that.”

 

“I...intellectually I suppose I can understand, but emotionally? I think I’m with John here since he is clearly not over this either. One last deduction. John loves you more deeply than I do, and I can’t get past _but she shot you,_ so I doubt he can either. He doesn’t know how to make sense of ‘the woman I love shot the man I love’ no matter how you try to explain her reasoning. Despite that, he still must love her or he would have broken it off with her. So he’s on Lestrade’s sofa trying to come up with some solution that won’t leave him heartbroken. Well, more heartbroken. And he doesn’t know you want him as more than a friend, especially considering how hard you’ve been trying to push him back with Mary, so there’s the absolute shit feeling of unrequited love to consider as well.”

 

Sherlock steeples his hands beneath his chin. “So you’re saying we’re a long way from him fucking me senseless.”

 

“Unless you want spectacularly angry, desperate sex with a lot of awkward silence afterwards I’d say yes. You two have a few things to talk about first.”

 

“So exactly how bad would it be, in your estimation, if he were to receive a text from Mary telling him she’s in support of him coming over to have sex with me before I’ve said how I feel about him?”

 

Victor groans. “Tell me you did not have her do that before you even told the man you’re stupidly in love with him. What is she thinking? What are either of you thinking? This is why you can’t have nice things!”

 

“I can write her and see if she’s texted him yet,” Sherlock says, reaching into the pocket of his dressing gown for his mobile.

 

“No! Absolutely not! No more third party interference. Shut up, I don’t count,” Victor adds at Sherlock’s pointed look. “Grow a pair and just tell him you love him and want to have lots of sex and babies. Which in this case may actually work out for you,” he muses.

 

Sherlock panics. “I can’t tell him via text, even _I_ know that’s more than a bit not good. I can’t call him, because I need to see him when I say it so I know- so I can see- I just can’t, alright! I need to tell him in person.”

 

“Okay, no declarations of love over the phone. That’s fair. But you need to say _something_ to him.”

 

Sherlock tries to will his heart rate back down to normal as he pulls out his mobile and opens a text to John. Finally he settles on, _I expect you’ve just heard from Mary, and Victor informs me I’ve behaved like an idiot and should have talked to you first.-SH_

 

Sherlock bites his lip and stares at the screen. When ten seconds pass he sends another.

 

_This is what happens when I don’t have someone around to keep me right and I apologize. You are lacking some crucial data. Please come talk to me. -SH_

 

This time the reply comes almost immediately. John must have been stewing. _What the actual fuck is going on? If this is your idea of a joke I will never speak to you again._

 

_No jokes. I’ve learned my lesson on that count. Mary’s serious as well. Please, John. -SH_

 

_Promise me, Sherlock._

 

_I promise. - SH_

 

_Shit. I need to wrap my head around this and I promised Harry I’d come see her new place in Ipswich. I’ll be there the day after tomorrow yeah?_

 

_I’ll be here. Victor’s brought me NY cold cases to keep me from dragging him out on actual cases I suspect. Thank you. -SH_

 

_The ex who looks like a male model. Right._

 

_Don’t worry, he’s moving out of my bed once you get back.- SH_

 

“Sherlock! Give me that thing.” Victor snatches the mobile and types. _This is Victor. I’ve just stolen his mobile and he’s pouting at me. I want it to be clear there is no sex happening here. But he’s in serious need of some cuddling and I’m the only one here to do it._

 

_And now I’m back to wondering if this is a joke. Sherlock is capable of cuddling?_

 

_Still Victor. When you pet his hair he nearly purrs and he’ll tell you anything. Just an fyi._

 

“Give that back!” Sherlock grabs the phone and scrambles to the other side of the sofa. _Victor is a meddling bastard. You’ll probably adore him. Though in the interest of full disclosure, he’s not lying about the hair thing.-SH_

 

_You aren’t high are you? Drunk?_

 

_No on both counts. I do have good moods.-SH_

 

_I need to re-evaluate my life. I’ll see you soon. Maybe try the hair thing._

 

_Do.- SH_

 

“That went surprisingly well unless you managed to fuck it all up at the end there,” Victor says as he takes in the look of shocked happiness on his friend’s face.

 

“It did. He’s still upset at me, but he doesn’t want to be. I can tell. Maybe this will actually work.” Sherlock’s stomach flutters at the thought.

 

Victor bounces to his feet and strides into the kitchen. “Do you know what we need right now? Middle-of-the-night chocolate chip cookie dough.”

 

“It’s only half eleven, and I don’t think we have the supplies.”

 

“That’s because you are apparently still terrible at doing the shopping, whereas I am amazing at it,” Victor calls as he pulls a bag of chocolate chips out of a cupboard and shakes them enticingly. “Though Ryan would probably disagree, as far fewer fruits and vegetables make it into the cart when it’s my turn to run to the store.”

 

Sherlock joins Victor in the kitchen. “Cart,” he snorts. “ _American._ ”

 

“I will stab you with this spatula!” Victor threatens, sounding horrified though a grin is tugging at the corners of his mouth.

 

“I made this for John once, when I was too wired to sleep after a case. I’d never seen him so shocked. Don’t think he knew I could make anything aside from toast.” He goes digging for the bowls and measuring cups, hoping there are still a few he hasn’t used for biohazardous materials in his experiments.

 

“Only once?”

 

“He seemed disconcerted by the experience. I thought perhaps he just didn’t like cookie dough. He doesn’t have a very big sweet tooth, he’ll generally select crisps over biscuits. Looking back though, maybe my sticking a bit into his mouth with my fingers wasn’t so much irritating as sexually frustrating.”

 

Victor laughs. “You think? I suppose you then licked the rest off of your own fingers.”

 

Sherlock blinks. “Ah. It’s entirely possible I was an accidental tease for years. I just- he was so adamant about being straight.”

 

“The way I hear it, he was just adamant about not being gay, which is an entirely different thing.” Victor begins measuring and dumping the wet ingredients into one bowl. No egg, since they just want to eat the dough. “And you never caught yourself wanting to climb into his lap and kiss him?”

 

“No, I caught myself wanting things like that quite frequently at first, but I trained myself to just ignore them. I imagine it’s like you suddenly thinking you’d like to go on holiday. You know it would be pleasurable, but you also know you can’t just get on a plane and go. Since it’s not going to happen, you just brush the thought aside and forget about it.”

 

“Your mind works in strange ways,” Victor muses as he mixes his bowl of ingredients. “You still remember the recipe I see.”

 

“Hmm. I deleted the solar system at some point, for which I’ve received no end of grief from John. But this I kept.” Sherlock measures the dry ingredients and stirs them together meticulously. Then he opens the bag and dumps a few chocolate chips into his mouth.

 

“I see your sweet tooth is still alive and well. I’m not surprised you deleted the solar system actually. Not much real-life application there really.”

 

“Thank you! Be sure to tell that to John when you meet him the day after next.”

 

“Looking forward to it. He must really be something special.”

 

“He is. And that’s enough sentiment for one day.” Sherlock takes a pinch of flour and flicks it into Victor’s face.  

 

Victor laughs. “Are you sure you want to start this? You’ve never taken me in a fight before,” he warns as he flings a few chocolate chips in Sherlock’s general direction before grabbing his own handful of flour and escaping to the far side of the table.

 

“Maybe I’ve improved over the years,” Sherlock retorts, deciding how to best tackle Victor to the floor and stuff chocolate chips down the back of his trousers. He hasn’t done anything this ridiculous in years, but a combination of Victor’s presence and the knowledge that John is coming home has him feeling uncharacteristically playful, almost high.

 

“Let’s see what you’ve got then,” Victor taunts as he rounds the corner of the table at a sprint and throws his handful of flour.

 

What results is a raucous chase around the flat resulting in tipped chairs, piles of books tumbling to the ground, and a laughing, flailing mess on the floor. Sherlock has finally got Victor pinned beneath him when the door bangs open.

 

“What in heaven’s name is going on here?!” Mrs. Hudson yells as she takes in the scene, looking distinctly as if she’s just been woken up. “Really boys, I thought you were being attacked and you’re rolling around like a couple of teenagers!”

 

Victor looks mildly contrite, but Sherlock simply grins unapologetically. “Well since you’re up, would you care for some cookie dough? I see you brought your own spoon.” He nods at the ladle she’s clutching in her right hand.

 

She looks down at it, then huffs. “Well it was the first thing at hand.”

 

Victor shoves Sherlock off of him and struggles to his feet, then shakes some of the flour out of his hair before going to kiss her hand. “My brave and beautiful lady. Thank you for the attempted rescue, and I apologize for waking you.”

 

Mrs. Hudson blushes. “Oh, you flatterer. It’s nice to see Sherlock smiling again, though I do hope you can keep the clattering about to more normal hours.” She pats Victor on the cheek then shakes her head and leaves, muttering something about young fools.

 

“I definitely won,” Sherlock declares as they make their way back into the kitchen to finish mixing up the cookie dough.

 

“Hardly! We were just interrupted while you were temporarily on top,” Victor counters. A moment later he realizes what he just said and breaks into laughter again.

 

“Shh!! If she comes back it will probably be with a far more deadly utensil,” Sherlock scolds, struggling and failing to look stern.

 

“Well this is definitely a mess,” Victor observes a few minutes later while they’re perched on the counter and eating dough off of spoons.  

 

“This place has seen far worse. At least cookie ingredients aren’t toxic. I need a shower before bed,” Sherlock adds as he picks a bit of dough out of his hair.

 

“Same. You can go first and I’ll clean up a bit, but only because I’m sure you’ll find some way to get out of it anyways like you always do.”

 

“You can join me if you want. I don’t mind,” Sherlock says without thinking. Though actually, possibly that’s taking things a bit too far, he considers.

 

“Oh, hell no. You’ll notice I’ve neither kissed you on the lips or been fully naked with you. I’m not crossing any more lines that will make your gun-toting boyfriend, or his gun-toting wife for that matter, have any reason to shoot me in a jealous fit.”

 

“Probably a wise course of action,” Sherlock admits before heading for the washroom. His cheeks hurt from laughing and he wonders if John will even recognize him like this. This is followed immediately by a sense of regret that he’s never let John see this nearly forgotten side of himself. But John is coming home, and this time Sherlock will make sure that he stays.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued thanks to Snogandagrope and Hedwig-Dordt for being wonderful beta readers and friends! And to all of you lovely readers, who make writing this worth it : ) Thank you ever so much for all the encouraging comments!

 

Sherlock lies in bed thinking while Victor showers. He’s still getting used to the novelty of so much physical affection after years of going without it, and he’s more than a bit nervous about how quickly he has come to crave it again. He supposes it’s a good thing he and Victor were young and insatiable that summer so long ago, because once he’d discovered how incredible it felt to be close to someone he couldn’t go more than a few hours without being touched. Luckily he’d been able to frame it as a series of experiments- which in a way it had been- but the real truth was he came to need it like breathing.

 

But John...will John even want to touch him as much as Victor seems want to? He closes his eyes and reflects on his years with John. John has never had a problem being close to him, that much is true. He had an easy way of touching Sherlock after he’d first moved in. A brush of a hand across his back in passing, a light touch while waiting for Sherlock to open the door to the flat, fingers brushing when he handed Sherlock a mug of tea. But he’d stopped after a few months. Why?

 

Sherlock reflects on his reactions to all of those little intimacies. Ah. He’d often frozen, not out of discomfort but out of self-preservation. Easy to misinterpret. He’d liked it too much. Couldn’t like it. Couldn’t let his transport distract him from his work. So eventually John had stopped.  What would have happened if he had leaned into the touch instead of away? He growls in frustration at his own stupidity. But when John came along it had been so long since anyone had truly liked him, had wanted to be his friend, that he was afraid to dare wish for more. And John had begun dating, and that was that.

 

Sherlock thinks about John and his girlfriends. How he’d interacted with them. He’d been courteous, kind, but never overly physically demonstrative of his affections- at least not around Sherlock. He’d rarely even had them spend the night, had almost always gone to their homes instead. Not enough data.

 

Victor is right, he is terrified. Because if John wants him, loves him...Sherlock knows he will want much more than any of John’s girlfriends ever wanted. More than Mary ever wanted either, from what he’s seen. At least in terms of physical intimacy. Mary seems content to let John sit across the room from her, or next to her but not always touching. Sherlock will want to touch him as much as possible. All the time. He wonders if John will mind. If Mary will. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow, seeing as he’s simultaneously excited and nervous for John’s return.

 

“What did those sheets ever do to you?” Victor asks as he takes in the way Sherlock is  lying on his back, looking tense while gripping fistfuls of material.

 

“Nothing, I’m just-”

 

“Freaking out?” Victor supplies as he climbs into bed and props himself up onto one elbow and looks down at Sherlock.

 

“I dislike not knowing things and right now there are too many uncertainties. It’s maddening.”

 

“I think you just officially joined the human race, darling. Congratulations. Have your complimentary dose of anxiety.”

 

“I really want to hate you,” Sherlock gripes as he grabs Victor around the waist and drags him closer.

 

Victor flails in surprise and accidentally smacks Sherlock on the face. “Warn a guy! We seriously need to work on your cuddling skills.”

 

“I’m an excellent cuddler!” Sherlock argues as he tries to sort out what exactly to do with the arm that seems trapped between their bodies.

 

“You’re an excellent cuddlee. Not so much a cuddler,” Victor counters as he watches Sherlock’s struggle with amusement.

“I’m just out of practice! Besides, you’re too tall and slender for this to work. John is shorter and more solid,” Sherlock declares with an exasperated huff.

 

Victor rolls his eyes. “I’m sure that’s the problem. Now just slide that bottom arm beneath my neck- like that, yes. And let me slide my bottom arm between your ribcage and hip like this.” He wriggles his arm beneath Sherlock and scoots closer. “Now throw your top leg over mine. Good. Isn’t this nice? Perfect angle for kissing, or just snuggling.” He dips his head and tucks it beneath Sherlock’s chin. “See?”

 

“I’m operating under the assumption that John will view my issues as endearing instead of irritating,” Sherlock offers as he runs his free hand up and down the skin of Victor’s back.

 

“I’d say that’s a fair plan,” Victor admits as he sighs and snuggles in closer.

 

“Are you actually going to sleep?” Sherlock asks incredulously.

 

“No, just getting comfy. I’ve gotten more sleep than usual since I’ve been here.”

 

“Me as well.” Sherlock continues stroking Victor’s warm skin. It’s nice. He wonders how long it will take him to be this comfortable with John. Or John with him. “I’ve done my fair share of talking I think. Tell me about your last few years. How did you meet Ryan? I’m certain you weren’t dating him before I left.”

 

“No. I met him a few months after I thought you died. John doesn’t have a monopoly on grieving, you know. I was heartsick for a long time, Sherlock. I missed our monthly emails. Regretted that I’d never actually seen you since that summer. You’re my oldest friend, and I never stopped loving you. Even if the feeling isn’t mutual, since none of your friends appear to know I existed. Arse.” He smacks Sherlock lightly on the shoulder.

 

“I’m sorry for hurting you. And it’s not that I’m ashamed of you. I just didn’t-” Sherlock struggles for the right words. “It was something that was mine. Your friendship, I mean. I liked having something that was mine alone. Without Mycroft trying to make it his business, or anyone else for that matter.”

 

“That makes sense then. Are you upset at me for showing up like this? Everyone knows about me now, that’s for sure.”

 

“No, I’m quite grateful that you’re here. So, about the last few years…”

 

“Okay, story time. I met Ryan at a charity art auction for Boys Town of New York. I donated a few of my photographs.”

 

“I’ve kept up on your website. You’ve very good. Much better than just after university when you thought you were Ansel Adams after only one class.”

 

“Hush you. I could still make my fortune off of that one shot I got of you all dripping wet with your face tilted up to the sun after skinny dipping in the lake. You can’t even see any of the naughty bits, so I could show it in any gallery.”

 

“Hmm, but you wouldn’t.” Sherlock is certain of it. That picture is Victor’s alone.

 

“True. It’s probably the only photo of mine Ryan hasn’t seen. Moving on, I was explaining my work to a potential buyer and I heard him before I ever saw him. This gorgeous, deep voice like honey-dipped sex coming from behind a partition. I excused myself and rounded the corner and he was gesturing to this exquisite oil painting of a few boys laughing and playing stick ball in the Bronx. Now I don’t believe in love at first sight, but I do believe in feeling immediately like you need to know someone, to be a part of their reality, like you need to breathe. He was just...magnetic. And breathtaking. Tall, slender, striking eyes and cheekbones…”

 

“You do have a type,” Sherlock teases.

 

“Nothing wrong with that. Actually, I’d love to photograph you two together. Your coloring would be intensely striking. I could call it Ebony and Ivory or something equally pretentious and it would sell like crazy.”

 

“I have no interest in modeling, Victor. It interests me as little now as it did all those years ago.”

 

“Shame, really, but fine. So I went up to him and made something of an idiot of myself asking about his art and where his studio was so I could see more, and for whatever reason he decided my obvious crush was cute instead of disturbing. He invited me back to his studio for a private showing after the event, and by morning we’d nearly broken that orgasm record we set on July 12th, 1998.”

 

“Impressive.”

 

“It was. And that was it. I was ridiculously in love within a month, and he proposed a year later. He keeps me grounded. I inspire him, to hear him tell it. It works, and we’re so happy we disgust our friends. And now I miss him, dammit.”

 

Sherlock feels uncomfortably guilty. “You can always call him, or go back if you want.”

 

“We’ve been texting, I’m sure you’ve noticed. And no, it’s fine. Missing someone is good. Makes you realize how much better your life is when they’re around, you know?”

 

Sherlock thinks of John. “Trust me, I know.”

 

“I suppose you do at that. One more day.” Victor kisses Sherlock’s shoulder then snuggles in more comfortably. “That’s not a thought conducive to sleep though. Your turn. Tell me a story about the East Wind.”

 

Sherlock blinks in surprise as memories come flooding back. “I haven’t thought about those stories in years. Mycroft considers himself too old for fairy tales now, and I haven’t told one since you used to ask me for them.”

 

“Well this will be good practice. You’ll need to get good at stories with a kid on the way.”

 

“I’m not entirely certain they’re children’s stories, as much as Mycroft treated them as such.”

 

“Are you kidding? They’re perfect children’s stories. ‘Pick up your room or the East Wind will get you.’ It would totally work.”

 

“I don’t think John would approve of scare tactics as a form of discipline. Besides, ‘Pick up your room or Sherlock won’t tell you about his latest murder case’ will be far more effective.”

 

“I’m just going to start a therapy fund for this kid instead of a college fund,” Victor declares with a snicker.

 

“Do you want the story or not?” Sherlock asks with a distinct tone of warning in his voice.

 

“Yes. I’ll be good. Continue, please.”

 

Sherlock knows exactly which villain to weave into his tale. “Once upon a time there was a man who liked to prey upon the weaknesses of others and use his knowledge as a means of gaining power over them…”

 

By the time the story is over, Victor feels as on edge as if he’d just finished watching a horror film. “Shit. No, not a children’s story. I don’t recall there being quite so much violence, or the East Wind being quite so terrifying. Well now I’m definitely not ready to sleep, so you may as well tell me more about the actual man behind the cautionary tale. I’m guessing he’s the one with the dirt on Mary.”

 

“Yes. Charles Augustus Magnussen.”

 

“The newspaper tycoon. Right, I’ve heard of him. Mostly through dark whispers and rumors. He’s definitely got power when it comes to the stock market seeing as people buy and sell based on the reputations of companies.”

 

“He’s got power everywhere, and now he’s threatening the people I hold dear. He needs to be stopped.”

 

“Does that include Mycroft?”

 

“Mycroft will be an accidental beneficiary,” Sherlock admits. “I’m not doing it for him though.”

 

“Right. So, what are you going to do? Obviously breaking into his office was ineffective.”

 

“I need to get into Appledoor itself. Retrieve the files he has on Mary first, and then get him locked away at the very least.” Sherlock’s voice is cool determination.

 

Victor represses a shiver. “Sherlock…you’re not planning on killing him, are you? This isn’t worth your life. You’d never survive in prison if you were caught. Please don’t do anything stupid.”

 

Sherlock feels a rush of irritation. Surely Victor understands that he needs to do this. “I’ll do whatever I have to do! Two years to get back to John, only to return to him in danger again! I’m ending this. He will have a long, good life, whether it’s with me or not.”

 

“He will not have a good life without you! Stop with the self-sacrificing martyr complex because it’s so misguided I want to shake you. He loves you. He was a mess when you were gone- trust me on this one, I just listened to your friends expound on his depression at length. Finding Mary helped, yes, but he still wasn’t as alive as when you were around. If you kill yourself for him again- because that’s how he’ll see it if you do kill Magnussen and go away for it- it will destroy him, Sherlock. He can’t lose you again. Now tell me your no-doubt idiotic plan so I can help fix it.”

 

Sherlock digs his fingers into the skin of Victor’s back and grits his teeth. Feels a twisting roil of anger, shame, and discomfort at the angle he’s being forced to consider. “I can’t lose him either!”

 

“Yes, you’re a pair of co-dependent, blindly in love arseholes. This is how Romeo and Juliet happens! No, this is worse. I swear it’s like someone took a bunch of Shakespeare plays and threw them in a blender and your lives are what came out.”

 

Sherlock feels manic laughter threatening to surface. “Well _I’m_ not Juliet.”

 

“Fine, you can be friar fuck-up. Now tell me the plan.”

 

Sherlock looks shifty.

 

“Oh hell, you already did something didn’t you?”

 

“It’s possible I already met with Magnussen and told him I’d give him Mycroft as a Christmas present. Well not Mycroft himself of course, but his personal laptop. There would be enough access to government secrets on it for him to go away forever if caught with them. I bring it to him and exchange it for Mary’s files, and then the government swoops in on him. It’s a logical plan,” he insists.

 

“You need to watch more spy movies, Sherlock, because that plan is shit,” Victor declares. “Let me guess, you’re planning to show up with only John as backup and just hope he hands over the files and is also stupid enough not to assume the laptop would have a tracking device in it when even _I_ can sort that one out. And then you’re just going to believe the files don’t have copies somewhere else, when in reality it doesn’t matter either way because all he would have to do was make one call to a number he no doubt has memorized and have Mary’s past life come crashing down regardless. Hell, he could do it from prison.”

 

Sherlock’s mind immediately begins going over the now-obvious holes in his plan. Proof something is wrong with him. That his mind isn’t operating correctly. That sentiment has made him weak. “Then he can’t be allowed to live.”

 

Victor kisses Sherlock’s forehead soothingly. “I can’t advocate you killing anyone. I know you’ve done it for John already, but this...there has to be another way. And I think you’re overlooking the person who can come up with one. If this thing between the three of you is going to work out, you need to stop thinking in terms of John being your only option for support.”

 

Sherlock hadn’t actually considered what Victor is suggesting. “Mary.”

 

“Well she is an ex-James Bond type, isn’t she? I’m sure she would be far better at coming up with a plan for dealing with him than you- not that she did brilliantly before I suppose, but she was also operating under the assumption she needed to do it alone. If you three idiots would only work together things would be far easier. I mean, you have a genius, a spy, and a soldier between you. One would think you could come up with _something._ This is about all of you, and each of you seems determined to go it alone. It’s ridiculous. Aaaaand we’re back to communication issues.”

 

Sherlock’s brain sparks to life. “You’re brilliant! Not quite John, but you’ll do in a pinch. Don’t look affronted, that’s a compliment. Not just a soldier, a _doctor._ We don’t have to kill him, we just need to...permanently incapacitate him.”

 

“That sounds like a very grey area, but I actually do feel better about that plan so I’m guessing John will as well. I’m not certain about Mary, her I barely have a read on at all but I’m assuming as long as he’s out of commission she’ll be satisfied. I’m not gonna lie, she scares me and I’ve never even met her.”

 

“She’s no danger to you. She’ll probably adore you since you’re helping me, which helps John. I won’t sleep for a while yet I’m sure, but I need some time in my mind palace. If you want to get up and do something I understand.” Sherlock scoots back, intending to let Victor slip away.

 

“No, I’m fine. I’ll just get comfortable and fall asleep eventually.” Victor rolls over onto his side and grabs Sherlock’s top arm to pull it close so he can lace their fingers together. “Sweet dreams, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock wakes before Victor the following morning, then carefully disentangles himself and slips out of bed. He selects some clothes and pads to the washroom, then to the kitchen start the kettle for tea and start in on the cold case he was still working on. He’s feeling unaccountably anxious. Well, possibly accountably since John is coming home _tomorrow,_ but if he thinks about that too hard it has an unacceptable tendency to make his stomach flutter and his palms sweat. He needs something to distract him.

 

“How long have you been up?” Victor yawns as he wanders into the kitchen wearing one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns.

 

“Long enough to solve one case. I’m starting in on the last one.” Sherlock tacks another picture to the wall and looks at it closely. There’s something off about the tide and the timing of when the body was supposedly found on the beach. There could be up to a ten minute margin of error.

 

“Long enough for the tea to go cold as well I see,” Victor comments as he dumps cold tea down the sink and starts the kettle to make more. “And for the toast to turn disturbingly hard.” He raps on the counter with one distressingly solid piece of bread. He places a few more slices into the toaster as well. “You’re nervous about seeing John again, aren’t you? Wondering what he’s going to say and when he’s finally going to kiss you?”

 

“Well I am _now_ , thanks ever so much,” Sherlock gripes as he tries to focus on the case.

 

“Can I take a picture when it happens? It would be a treasured keepsake, I promise,” Victor teases.

 

“I hate you. Eat your damn toast and leave me alone.” Sherlock staunchly ignores Victor’s presence and goes back to his file. Apparently he finds some way to amuse himself because the next time Sherlock snaps back to the present reality is some hours later when he hears a familiar gait on the stairs.

 

Sherlock throws himself out of his seat at the table and grabs Victor’s laptop out of his hands to toss it across onto John’s chair. Luckily his own chair is large enough that he can shove Victor’s knees apart and settle himself in to lean back against Victor’s chest.

 

“What’s gotten into you?” Victor snaps in mild irritation.

 

Ah, possibly he’d been in the middle of making a trade but this is more important. “Mycroft is on the way up.” He grabs Victor’s hands and settles them on his stomach as he leans back and places his own on Victor’s knees. “This will shock him, and I so rarely get the opportunity.”

 

“I’m in then. What do I do?”

 

“He has no idea what we got up to that summer, seeing as his power didn’t yet extend to spying via satellite. Since he doesn’t know he still teases me about being a virgin in an attempt to taunt me into revealing the truth. I think it’s time to disabuse him of that notion.”

 

Victor rumbles out a devilish laugh. “Oh, I can definitely do that.”

 

Mycroft knocks as he’s in the process of opening the door, as per usual. Before he has even closed the door behind him Sherlock is thrilled to witness and entire 1.75 seconds of surprise before his brother’s typical something-smells-slightly-off-and-I’m-bored-by-life expression reasserts itself. He grins.

 

“Really Sherlock, your attempts to shock me grow wearisome. First John has to drag you out of a flop house, and now this?” He tutts and hangs up his coat and umbrella before setting Victor’s laptop on the floor and settling himself into John’s chair. He crosses his legs and looks down his nose at his brother.

 

Sherlock merely tilts his head to the side so Victor can nibble at his ear. “You’re just upset that it worked.”

 

“Hardly,” Mycroft drawls derisively. “You know Victor, this isn’t quite what I had in mind when I said my brother was in need of companionship.”

 

Victor gives Sherlock’s neck a final kiss and narrows his eyes at Mycroft. “Your exact word was ‘babysitter,’ and no, I imagine you had a lot more reporting back to you and a lot less kissing in mind.”

 

Mycroft doesn’t blink. “Well Sherlock, at least I no longer need to ask what you got up to that summer you decided to act the rebel and vanish with no concern for what it did to Mummy.”

 

Sherlock ignores the jab. “Ask away. It’s to do with sex, which as it turns out doesn’t bother me in the least.”

 

Mycroft looks like he’s trying to swallow a mouthful of boxed wine. “I don’t care about your sex life. I’m just stopping by to see how you’re recovering.”

 

Victor snorts. “And to make sure I’ve not let him get high or pitch himself off another rooftop. You’re here to see how he’s _recovering_? As if you care about his wellbeing when you told me he was being beaten when you rescued him, but you had to let it happen to save your cover. If you’re as brilliant as you claim, with as much power as you claim, I’m sure you could’ve found a way to get him out earlier.  I’ve always thought you were cold, but that was low even for you. I said was going to punch you if I saw you, so you’re lucky I’m occupied.” He wraps his legs around Sherlock’s waist. “But be warned I’m still considering it.”

 

Mycroft looks genuinely wounded. “I saved his life!”

 

“You took your sweet time about it!” Victor snaps. “You’re still the bastard who convinced him he was a sociopath by the age of six as a joke. He may have turned it back on you by deciding it was a convenient label to claim, but he still sounded hurt when he was telling me about it. I heard plenty about you during that summer, Mycroft. I don’t have to look far to sort out where his fucked-up view of love comes from, do I?”

 

Sherlock seizes upon an opportunity that allows him to say something nauseatingly sentimental, but acceptable due to its certainty to make his brother squirm. “Hush, Victor.” He shifts to face his friend. “It’s water under the bridge. Besides, you don’t have to look far to sort out where my less fucked-up view of love comes from either.” He kisses Victor softly on the nose.

 

Victor blinks in surprise and smiles back softly.

 

Mycroft makes a loud gagging noise and stares at the ceiling as if it’s as interesting as that of the Sistine Chapel. “Are you quite finished making me nauseous? I suppose I should be thankful you never ended up with John as I expected. I’m not sure I could handle the constant and disgusting displays of affection.”

 

“Poor Mycroft,” Victor croons. “I’m afraid you’re operating under an invalid assumption regarding that relationship. Whatever are you going to do when they finally do get together after all? Just imagine all of the touching and kissing and snuggling after so many years of repressed desire. Imagine the Christmas dinners once Mary gets involved as well. It’s a good thing you got me here, because I’m not sure it could’ve happened without my help.”

 

Mycroft pales visibly. “I should have you deported.”

 

“Sorry mate, still British I’m afraid,” Victor drawls with a smirk.

 

Sherlock slides a hand into Victor’s hair and fixes his brother with a teasing smirk. “Don’t you have any governments to topple? I’m busy. So much snuggling to do before John returns tomorrow, seeing as I’m terribly out of practice.” He turns his head to nuzzle into Victor’s neck and tries not to laugh at the constipated expression on his brother’s face.

 

“So there _isn’t_ sex involved. I knew it,” Mycroft sniffs as he stands and strides quickly to the door.

 

“Are you sure?” Victor asks as he undoes Sherlock’s top button to slide the shirt over and reveal the still-obvious bite mark.

 

Sherlock finds his brother’s look of irritated uncertainty as he exits without so much as a goodbye extremely gratifying. “Well that was fun,” he admits as he gets up and wanders back to his place at the table.

 

“You’re a better person than I am, that’s for sure,” Victor says as he retrieves his laptop. “I know he’s your brother, but he’s such a dick.”

 

“You never had a sibling, so you don’t understand. He’s a dick as you say, but he’s...family. He’s always been there for me, even when he was doing awful big brother things like telling me I was a sociopath. But he also read pirate stories to me, and he snuck cigarettes and porn into the desk of the first boy at school who ever made my life miserable, and got him expelled. He did try talking me out of going after Moriarty’s web alone, but I wouldn’t listen. I’m not asking you to like him, I’m just asking you to try to understand why I don’t hate him. And to never, _ever_ tell him I said that.”

 

“You have the most complicated relationships I’ve ever heard of,” Victor sighs. “But fine, for you I won’t punch him.”

 

“Well, let’s never say never on that point,” Sherlock grins as he turns back to his case.

 

Five hours later Victor has finished all the work he needs to do and wasted as much time on the internet as he can handle. Sherlock has just finished ranting at a detective in New York, so it’s probably a good time to ask for something and capitalize on the post-case high. “Let’s go out for an early dinner. I’ve hit terminal velocity of sitting around in this flat,” he says as he closes his laptop.

 

“Yes alright,” Sherlock agrees, mostly because he doesn’t want to end up simply pacing the flat and wondering what will happen when John returns.

 

“I should probably get dressed in that case,” Victor says as he stands. He’d never gotten around to changing into actual clothing, so he goes and pulls on jeans and a black button-down since Sherlock is in his traditional stylish clothing. “Do you have any preferences? I’d like to just walk around for a while and stop wherever looks good if that’s acceptable.”

 

Sherlock agrees, and they walk in the direction of Kensington Gardens. It’s actually more pleasant than he’d expected, just walking for the sake of walking with no case or destination in mind. He deduces people to amuse Victor as they walk. He misses John.

 

“Just text him already. You’re obviously itching to,” Victor states in exasperation after watching Sherlock pull his phone halfway out of his coat pocket then slide it back in again.

 

“And say what? I miss you?” Sherlock despises the fact that he feels nervous even considering it. Honestly, how does anyone survive this?

 

“Sounds good for a start, yeah,” Victor agrees as he pulls out his own mobile and takes a picture of the entrance to the gardens and sends it to Ryan.

 

Sherlock grits his teeth. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, it’s just that he’s not certain John would welcome it. What John _wants_ from him. “He’d think I’ve finally lost it. I don’t say things like that.”

 

“And there’s your first problem. You really need to work on your relationship skills. FYI, people like to know when they’re missed. When they’re wanted. When they’re loved. How would you feel if John sent a message saying he missed _you_? You need to be honest about your feelings.”

 

Sherlock considers. “Shocked. Pleased. Regretful that he isn’t here.”

 

“Well then, I say go for it.”

 

Sherlock pulls out his mobile and finally types: _You missed a visit from Mycroft. I’ve never seen him look so wonderfully uncomfortable. I suspect if we engage in physical contact his visits will decrease in length by 73%. I miss you. -SH_

 

He tries to ignore the way his stomach feels like he’s falling as he waits for a reply. One comes after only a minute and a half.

 

_You’re maddening. Tell me again this isn’t a joke._

 

_It’s not a joke. Victor and I are out walking until he finds somewhere he wants to eat and he’s texting his husband and I miss you. -SH_

 

_It should probably make me feel better that he’s married, but it really doesn’t._

 

Sherlock grins at the screen. _John, are you jealous?- SH_

 

_I’d lie, but you’ll just read it all over me tomorrow so there’s no point. See? Maddening._

 

_Victor is just a friend, John. I think you’ll like him. How is Harry? -SH_

 

_Irritating as always. She’s sober again though and has a new job. And he’s a friend sleeping in your bed. How is that normal?_

 

Sherlock frowns at his mobile in confusion. _I’d prefer you in my bed. In case I’ve not made that clear. -SH_

 

_Ask Victor to explain the concept of jealousy. I’ll see you tomorrow, Sherlock._

 

_Both you and your bed._

 

_I can’t believe I just sent that._

 

_Miss you too._

 

Sherlock feels a thrill of excitement at that last text. “So, John says you can explain,” he says and hands the mobile to Victor to scroll through the texts.

 

Victor groans. “Seriously, you’re lucky the man is gone for you so maybe a little jealousy won’t hurt. He probably thinks you’re rubbing in the fact that you like sleeping with men but you’ve never said, and never asked him if he’d like to snuggle under the covers and take a nap before.”

 

“He would never have accepted! That’s not- our relationship before I left was never- and then he was _engaged_!”

 

“I’m sorry Sherlock, but the reality is that emotions aren’t rational. You’re jealous of Mary, are you not?”

 

Sherlock mentally squirms. “Possibly. But that doesn’t mean I dislike her.”

 

“I know, and hopefully he won’t dislike me. But people can’t help feeling the way they do, and most of us can’t lock our emotions away as well as you can.”

 

“I’m not as convinced that’s as much of a good thing as I used to be,” Sherlock admits.

 

“I’m glad. Now, deduce that couple over there,” Victor requests.

 

They walk through the gardens and settle on a Moroccan restaurant, then stop for tea at a cafe on their way home. By the time they get back it’s after nine, but since it’s still early they watch reruns of Judge Judy on Victor’s laptop so Sherlock can amuse himself by ranting about whether the rulings were correct or not. It’s past midnight before they wander off to bed, and Sherlock lies awake for another few hours running his fingers over Victor’s skin while hoping that tomorrow John will let him do the same.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John is finally in the picture!! Now there can be lots of John and Sherlock snuggles and sex! Hey, I got there eventually at least : ) 
> 
> Continued thanks to Hedwig-Dordt and Snogandagrope for their invaluable help making this story better!

Sherlock wakes to the barest hint of daylight and the irritating sensation of his nerve endings buzzing as if he’s consumed too much caffeine. Anxiety, that’s what this is. Nervous tension. John is coming home today and he doesn’t know what to expect, and it’s maddening. He slips out of the circle of Victor’s arms and pads into the sitting room where he stands staring around for something to occupy his mind. The cold cases are solved and none of his experiments require tending to. He sidles over to the paper-strewn table and picks up a random scrap, which he begins folding almost without thinking. By the time he’s realized what he’s doing, there is a paper lotus in his palm. He sits down and creases another piece so he can carefully tear off the end to create another square, and begins folding again as his thoughts drift inevitably towards John.   

 

“What the hell, Sherlock?!” Victor nearly shouts when he walks into the room an hour later and is confronted with the sight of his friend at the epicenter of a veritable snowstorm of paper lotuses.

 

Sherlock startles out of his mental replaying of the first visit to Angelo’s and ensuing hypothesising about what could have happened had he not said he was married to his work, and looks around. Ah, apparently he’d been folding on autopilot. “John is coming home today,” is all he offers.

 

Victor runs a hand through his hair and takes a steadying breath. “Right. Possibly it would be best if he didn’t arrive to you looking like a deranged origami master. Unshowered. In his pajamas.”

 

Sherlock blinks and looks around at the mess. “You have a point. I’ll just...go shower then.” He crunches over the paper flowers and heads for the washroom, his mind still spinning its wheels on the idea that John is coming home. Today. John will be here. John, by his own admission, might play with his hair. Might want to share his bed. They have any number of things they need to discuss, and John is likely to still be upset, but maybe he’s just as anxious as Sherlock himself. Maybe he’s thinking about the hair thing too. Sherlock sighs. Being in love is awful.

 

The second Sherlock shuts the washroom door Victor scrambles for his mobile. He’s been trying to stay away from direct contact with John, but desperate times. He types out a quick text. _This is Victor. I know it’s early but what is your eta? Sherlock just folded about 200 origami flowers._

 

A reply comes a few seconds later. _Shit. The first train leaves around 8, I’ll be on it. 10ish probably._

 

Victor breathes a sigh of relief. _I’ll do my best to keep him calm until then. I know you’re angry with him, and I get it. Just...try to be gentle with his heart._

 

_I don’t even know what to say to that. This is all a bit much._

 

I _know. But he’s worth it, John. And just as nervous as you. Clearly._

_Is that supposed to make me feel better?_

_It was an attempt. See you soon then._

 

John doesn’t reply, so Victor cleans up the flowers and then goes to make tea and toast while considering how to keep a nervous Sherlock busy for the next three hours.

 

When Sherlock returns showered and shaved and dressed- strategically in the purple shirt John seems notice more than his white ones- Victor is sitting at the end of  the sofa and patting his thigh in invitation. Sherlock flops onto the sofa with his head in Victor’s lap and demands a story to distract him from wondering when John is going to show up and what will happen when he does. Patience has never been his strongest virtue, and right now the wait already feels interminable despite the fact that it’s barely 8am.

 

Victor first pulls a tube of lube and a few condoms out from beneath the sofa cushion and shrugs a ‘just in case’ motion before informing Sherlock there is more beneath his bedroom pillow. None of this helps to lower Sherlock’s level of anxiety. Fortunately Victor then launches into a tale involving a game of poker with his car and the clothes on his back as stakes, and pets Sherlock’s hair. Victor keeps his voice low and soothing and Sherlock knows exactly what he’s up to, but having only slept a few hours last night and knowing it will make time pass more quickly, he allows himself to be lulled to sleep.  

 

Sherlock jolts awake from a bizarre dream of floating in a lifeboat with John and Victor, while Mary- as a mermaid- pushed them along towards a distant shore. For a moment he’s disoriented, and then John’s familiar gait on the stairs registers. He’s already here? He blinks awake and is about to sit up, when Victor’s hand on his shoulder stops him. “That’s John, Victor.”

 

“I know, but I think it will be good for him to see you like this. I’m not sure he believes me about you being capable of cuddling. Besides, a tiny bit of jealousy might go a long way here,” he adds with a sly grin.

 

“If this backfires I’m blaming you,” Sherlock declares as he tries to will his racing pulse to slow down. It speeds up instead.

 

There is a pause in front of the door before it opens, and then John steps almost cautiously inside and sets a small suitcase down. When his gaze lands on Sherlock and Victor he opens his mouth and then closes it again. A moment later he does the little head tilt, ‘I’m trying to process this’ motion Sherlock is so familiar with, but for the first time it makes his stomach do a little flip. Has it always been so endearing? John licks his lips in another familiar motion and Sherlock wants to chase that enticing tongue with his own. He should probably say something. Or sit up.

 

John finally finds his voice. “So. Ah, this is...awkward.” He scratches the back of his neck and takes a few steps then stops, apparently trying to decide what to do next. His stares at Victor’s fingers as they card through Sherlock’s hair as if he’s trying to sort out whether he’s hallucinating or not.

 

“I fell asleep waiting for you,” Sherlock blurts out in a vaguely hysterical voice as he sits up and ruffles his hair, trying to straighten it as he mentally berates himself. Really? That’s the best he could come up with?

 

“Right, yeah. I can see that,” John replies, glancing at Victor with a slight frown.

 

Victor rolls his eyes and stands. “Well, seeing as Sherlock’s manners haven’t improved…” He steps up to John and holds out his hand. “Victor Trevor. Happily married man, in case you were concerned.”

 

John takes Victor’s hand and grips it more firmly than strictly necessary. “John Watson. Why would I be concerned?”

 

“Oh I don’t know, possibly because a dashingly handsome man was just petting your boyfriend’s hair,” Victor states with a wink.

 

John shifts from one foot to the other. “He’s not my-”

 

Victor reaches out quickly to wrap one hand behind John’s neck and clap the other over his mouth. “Don’t even _think_ about finishing that statement.”

 

“Victor!” Sherlock admonishes, feeling a rush of protectiveness even though he is fairly certain Victor won’t hurt John.

 

Victor ignores Sherlock and stares into John’s wide eyes. “I need you to be very careful what you say right now, John. This is too important to be ruined by careless words.” He removes his hands slowly. “You two have a lot to talk about, so I’ll just go see if Martha will make me tea and regale me with tales of the good old days in the cartel.” He gives John an obvious once-over, taking in his balled fists. “I can definitely see it. Such control...I can see the appeal in being the one to break it. Plus you’ve got this ruggedly attractive thing going on. Well, I’ll see you boys later!” He waves on his way out the door.

 

John turns to Sherlock with his brows raised. He looks as if he’s not entirely sure what to make of the exchange. “So that’s your ex. He’s...interesting.”

 

“He’s an arse with no sense of boundaries or personal space, but he means well.” John is too far away. Why is he just standing there?

 

“Sounds familiar,” John says with a nervous smile as he takes off his jacket and lays it over the arm of the sofa. He stands there uncertainly for a moment before sitting next to Sherlock, leaving enough space for another person between them. “So...I’m just going to let you do the talking since I’ve really got no idea what’s going on here.”

 

Sherlock knows there are things he needs to say. Many things. But he can’t think. The desire to curl into John’s lap is so intense it’s a physical ache. He watches the way John’s hands are clutching nervously at his trousers, the elevated flutter in his throat, the slight leaning of his body in Sherlock’s direction, the expression of longing apparent in his gaze, etched on every muscle of his face. All Sherlock manages is a faint noise of frustrated need.

 

John’s eyes go slightly wild. “Sherlock?”

 

“I can’t think. Not with you right there!”

 

John’s expression falls. “Oh. Right, I’ll just go sit-”

 

“No!” Sherlock wraps a hand around John’s wrist desperately. “I mean all I can think about is how badly I want you to be touching me right now.”

 

John breathes a sigh of relief. “Okay. Good, that’s good.” He reaches a cautious hand towards Sherlock, then pauses. “I just don’t know...why don’t you just show me, so I don’t worry about doing something you don’t want.”

 

It’s such a John thing to say that Sherlock is struck by an overwhelming rush of affection. The phrase ‘in love’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. He swings his legs over to rest across John’s thighs, slides an arm behind John’s back and the other around his waist, and arches his back enough that he can tuck his head into the curve of John’s neck. He only has about half a second to panic before John’s arms wrap around him as well and he feels a kiss pressed into his hair, and it’s comforting and thrilling at the same time. “I was worried you would be awkward about this for a while. For once I’m glad I was mistaken.”

 

“I’ve had years of practice in my mind,” John admits in a soft tone wholly unfamiliar to Sherlock.

 

“You imagined this?” Sherlock barely refrains from moaning as John’s fingers slide into his hair. It’s so different from when Victor does it that his breath catches and he struggles to catalogue why that would be. Possibly just because it’s John. Everything is different, better, with John. He tilts his head so he can nose at the stubble at the base of John’s jaw and breathe in his scent. It’s intensely arousing.

 

“Of course I did, don’t be thick. Your hair is softer than it looks,” John observes as he continues carding through the curls and scratching along Sherlock’s scalp.

 

“I didn’t know. I’m afraid when it comes to you I’m always rather thick.” Sherlock wants to taste, and so he does. He sticks his tongue out to rasp it over the stubble and tastes aftershave, sweat, John. He wants to bite but he doesn’t, settles for examining the texture with this lips, though the resulting shiver of repressed desire is obvious.

 

John tightens his grip on Sherlock and sucks in a shaky breath. “There’s a joke in there, but I’m too distracted to think of it. This is- a few days ago I had no idea you’d ever want this, and now you’re kissing my neck.”

 

Sherlock grins. He can’t remember ever being this happy. “Should I stop? I don’t really want to stop.”

 

“No, definitely don’t stop. I’d just feel less like I’m dreaming if you could also explain how the hell we ended up here.”

 

Sherlock snuggles in a bit more closely and kisses the soft skin beneath John’s ear, then trails three kisses across his jaw line. “The explanation is likely to make you upset in places so I need you to know two things first. One: It’s taking all of my willpower not to kiss you right now, but I know once I taste your mouth I’m going to be incapable of doing anything else for hours.”

 

John’s fingers tighten into a fist and pull at Sherlock’s hair. “Fuck. Okay, no kissing until you’re done talking.”

 

Sherlock takes a steadying breath and ignores the feeling of mild panic in his chest as he shifts enough that he can meet John’s eyes. “The second thing is that...I’m in love with you.” He bites his lip nervously and watches carefully, but all he observes is a pleased sort of shock. John opens his mouth but Sherlock lays two fingers across it. “Don’t. Not until you know everything.”

 

John nods, an endearingly shy smile playing across his lips. “Won’t change anything, but okay.”

 

Sherlock tucks his head back under John’s chin and begins. “I suppose I need to start with Victor.”

 

“Do I really need to hear this?”

 

“Are you jealous?” Sherlock asks as he wriggles his hand beneath the bottom of John’s button down to run his fingers over the deliciously soft skin just above his hip. “You needn’t be. I’ll stick to the pertinent details though.”

 

John hums in reply and finds a bit of Sherlock’s bare skin with his free hand as well. “I’m listening.”

 

Sherlock shivers at the sensation of even that slight touch, and it takes him a moment to redirect his thoughts. “We met in my last year of university when one of the dogs from his only attempt at dog walking for extra money escaped and bit me. He felt so bad he came to visit me while I was laid up in my dorm room. He didn’t have any friends, and neither did I. Well you can imagine why I didn’t, and his personality is similar enough that no one much liked him either. We became friends. In short, I worked on my first case with him just after I’d formulated my science of deduction. It involved his father who turned out to have adopted an entirely new identity after being involved in a crime, and a ghost from his past who came back to blackmail him.  At any rate, I doubt it will shock you to learn I’d not so much as kissed anyone.”

 

“Not really. Though I spent years under the impression you weren’t interested in kissing anyone.”

 

“I’m not asexual John, I was just...celibate, I suppose. I’ll explain in a moment. I’d generally ignored my sexual impulses, but I was curious and I could tell Victor was attracted to me. I proposed that we spend the summer after I graduated experimenting with sex.”

 

“Oh god, I bet you phrased it just like that as well.”

 

Sherlock pokes John in the side. “I prefer to be direct.”

 

“Really? You could’ve fooled me,” John replies with a little pinch of his own.

 

“You’re not getting kissed until I’ve finished,” Sherlock warns, though he’s thrilled that John is teasing with him.

 

“Shutting up.”

 

“Well he accepted. I’ll avoid specifics, but I rapidly discovered there is nothing I enjoy more than physical contact. Not even cocaine, or the thrill of a complicated case. But I liked it too much. It was all I could think about that summer. All I wanted.”

 

“You loved him.” John sounds almost sad.

 

“Yes. But I was never in love with him, or he with me. There’s only ever been you.”

 

John sucks in a breath and kisses Sherlock’s hair. “Since when do you say things like that?”

 

“Since now, apparently. At any rate, once he left for New York I shut that entire part of myself behind a door of my mind palace and ignored it. I told myself I had to, to continue my work. To focus. And then I met you, and I was so used to ignoring my sexuality that it was second nature. I can’t deny I felt something for you that first night at Angelo’s that I hadn’t since Victor, but I didn’t want to risk the distraction and you were so quick to point out you weren’t gay…”

 

“Still not gay,” John comments. “Definitely not entirely straight either though.”

 

“Clearly,” Sherlock smirks as he shifts his legs against the evidence of John’s interest.

 

“Not fair,” John grits out as he tugs on a few curls.

 

“Moving on. I’m not a nice person, as I said in my speech, and just to have you stick around was more than I ever thought I could have with someone. You were everything to me, John, but I didn’t recognize it as love. And then there was Moriarty and he threatened your life if I didn’t jump, so I made what I thought was a brilliant plan and I jumped. I couldn’t lose you. I couldn’t.”

 

“No, but you could let me lose you.” John’s voice is choked. “You weren’t killed, Sherlock. As far as I knew you committed suicide. Didn’t you consider what that would do to me? How I would spend years wondering if it was my fault for not being a better friend, for not seeing how much you must have been hurting to take your own life? You could’ve told me.”

 

Sherlock cringes. “I told you you’d get upset with me. You’re right, I didn’t think of that. I  find it difficult to believe that I’m someone who could be missed. I frustrated you, ruined your dates, made a mess of the flat, and generally treated you rather horribly. I needed you, but I truly didn’t think you needed me.  And I never asked you what you went through while I was gone, any more than you asked me.” He can’t help feeling a bit bitter about that, despite knowing he did the same to John.

 

“So we’re both dickheads in this situation, but I maintain you’re the bigger one.”

 

“I won’t argue that point. I didn’t tell you I was alive because I was afraid you would insist on coming with me on what was potentially an actual suicide mission, and I needed you alive.”

 

“Of course I would’ve,” John confirms immediately.

 

“Then it wouldn’t have worked. The things I had to do...I’ll tell you everything later, but for now just know I could never have handled watching you undergo the same treatment I received had we been captured together.”

 

“Hold on, you were captured?” John’s fingers dig into Sherlock’s skin.

 

Sherlock bites back a whimper because the scrape of nails feels incredible. “Hmmm. Several times. When Mycroft finally showed up after I’d taken out the final player in Moriarty’s web, I was in the middle of a rather harsh interrogation. I hope you won’t mind a few scars.”

 

John hugs Sherlock even tighter. “Shit. I didn’t think...I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m still upset you didn’t tell me, but thank you. For what you did. And I should’ve asked, I know.”

 

“And I’m sorry for hurting you so badly. I truly am. And that I used a bomb scare to get you to talk about this in the first place. I’m just thankful you’re here at all, considering who I am.”

 

John kisses Sherlock’s hair. “I’m so bad at this. Just...who you are is exactly what I want. That might be fucked up, but I think we can all agree we’re both more than a little fucked up.”

 

“True. One last thing. I know I’ve behaved like a different person since I got back, but those years changed me. I thought about you constantly. You saved me and you didn’t even know it. And I did what I set out to do and I survived and I thought it could go back to being you and me, and then there was Mary. And you loved her, and you weren’t mine anymore. And it took that- watching you get into the cab with her after you’d punched me a few times- to realize I was painfully in love with you.”

 

“I shouldn’t have hit you. That was wrong, and I’m sorry. I was just so angry, mostly because you treated it like a joke.”

 

“I only wanted to see you smile again. I miscalculated and I’m sorry. Again.”

 

“About Mary. I thought you were dead, and I was a complete wreck, and then I met her. And no I didn’t know she was a bloody assassin but there was something about her. Something sharp and brilliant and slightly calculating that reminded me of you, even if I tried to tell myself it didn’t.  And I fell in love with her, and I can’t change that.”

 

“I know. And if you feel for her anything close to what I feel for you, I would never want to take that from you. But she loves you, and I love you, and it’s not the usual thing but I think we can make it work, the three of us. We’re all danger-addicted killers, what could possibly go wrong?”

 

John’s laugh is strained. “I definitely need your whole story later.This is about the two of us for now though. Are you done then?”

 

Sherlock’s pulse spikes again. “Not nearly. For now though, yes.” He straightens to meet John’s eyes and licks his lips in nervous anticipation. He’s never wanted anything like he wants to memorize the texture of John’s lips with his tongue.

 

John opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, then he simply takes a deep breath, slides his hand down to cup the back of Sherlock’s neck, and leans forward to press his lips lightly against Sherlock’s before pulling back again in nearly a flinch. His face is a study in terrified bravery.  

 

Sherlock’s control snaps. He needs more contact which requires a bit of an awkward scramble, but soon he’s straddling John’s lap and cupping his face with both hands to tilt his head up. He’s torn between a desire to tear John’s clothes off and kiss him with all the desperation he’s feeling, and going as slowly as possible to memorize everything. He doesn’t want to scare John and he’s more than a bit nervous himself, so he settles on slow. He kisses John’s full lower lip then licks across it, cataloging the texture. Notes that John had black tea on the train. Kisses John’s upper lip then runs his tongue along the philtrum.

 

“You’ll kill me if you keep going this slowly,” John breathes, his hands sliding down to grip Sherlock’s arse and pull him in closer.

 

Sherlock kisses John softly again before simply brushing his mouth back and forth, luxuriating in the press of lips, the sensation of stubble against his freshly-shaved skin. “I don’t think it’s scientifically possible to die from a desire for one’s lover to go faster,” he murmurs as he kisses his way up John’s cheek then licks across his left eyebrow.

 

John laughs. “Did you seriously just lick my eyebrow?”

 

“Yes.” Sherlock slides his hands back into John’s hair- coarse, recently cut but still long enough to grab- and kisses John’s eyelid before fluttering his tongue lightly over the wrinkles at the corner of his eye.

 

“Memorize all the weird little things about my face later,” John urges fondly as he guides Sherlock back towards his mouth. “I’ve never french kissed a man if that’s any incentive,” he adds, his voice teasing but betraying an underlying insecurity.

 

Sherlock pulls back and looks at John. “Never?”

 

John shrugs. “A few mutual wanks in the army and one private who liked to peck kiss everyone after a successful mission, but that’s it.”

 

Sherlock feels a rush of possessiveness and is surprised at how pleased he is that John has never been with another man. “John. I haven’t had sex since before the London Eye was erected. If anyone’s lacking in experience here, it’s me.”

 

John relaxes visibly. “Right. Okay, I’m just-”

 

Sherlock cuts him off with a far less tentative kiss. He parts his lips and makes an imploring noise as he rolls his hips.

 

John rocks up into the delicious friction and sucks on Sherlock’s lower lip before biting down gently.

 

Sherlock whimpers as a shock of arousal sparks across his nerves and his hips buck involuntarily as he clutches at John’s hair. He can feel John’s smug smile. “Yes, I like being bitten,” he encourages.

 

John pulls Sherlock’s shirt out of his trousers and slips his hands beneath it to dig his fingers hard into the soft skin above Sherlock’s hips. “And this?”

 

“God, yes.” Sherlock shudders and gasps and that seems to be John’s signal to stop being so cautious because a moment later John licks into his mouth and it’s perfect. At first their teeth clack together and Sherlock has to remember what to do with his own tongue but it’s difficult to focus when he’s so completely overwhelmed by sensation.

 

Sherlock thought he remembered what it was like to be kissed like this, but apparently he remembered wrong because this is nothing like it was with Victor. John is making intoxicating, desperate noises low in his throat as his tongue runs along Sherlock’s soft palate, slides along his own, traces the backs of his teeth. John sucks Sherlock’s tongue in a manner that evokes thoughts of sucking something else entirely, and Sherlock has to be gripping John’s hair so hard it hurts but he can’t stop.

 

Sherlock slides his tongue into John’s mouth and makes an embarrassing keening sound of need so intense it’s nearly unbearable. He thought even just kissing John would be enough, but it’s not. It’s definitely not. He makes a frustrated noise because he wants John closer, but he has to lean down to kiss him so their torsos aren’t touching and it’s unacceptable. He nearly tumbles them onto the floor by grabbing John’s shoulders and falling to the side, pulling John along with him. After a bit of an awkward scramble John is lying on top of him on the sofa and oh, this is much better. He rucks John’s shirt up to get at bare skin and spreads his legs a bit more so John’s can fit between them.

 

John shifts into a comfortable position, which has the effect of making him writhe even more since even though his trapped cock is rubbing rather uncomfortably against Sherlock’s obvious erection it’s impossible to ignore it and hold still. “Are we just going to lie here and rub against each other like teenagers?” he finally pants after a few minutes of increasingly desperate kissing.

 

Sherlock struggles to find words because while he’s more aroused than he can recall being, he still doesn’t want to go farther than John is comfortable with. “If you want. Anything you want, John.” Sherlock ducks his head to nibble and suck on John’s neck, tasting sweat and wondering if it’s normal to want to lick him clean all over.

 

John sucks in a shaky breath. “Fuck. I want everything,Sherlock. But right now I just need for us to come because I can’t even think about specifics for wanting to watch you fall apart.”

 

Sherlock gives up on the idea of taking things slowly for their first time because he’s feeling just as distractedly desperate, so he urges John to lift up for a moment so he can undo his trousers and shove them halfway down his thighs. A moment later he does the same to John’s, then pulls John back down on top of him. The intoxicating feeling of skin-against-skin is overwhelming.

 

John kisses Sherlock then lifts up again enough to stare down at where their erections are bumping together. “Okay yeah that’s weird. And hot. But fucking weird,” he observes, his voice shaking with arousal.

 

Sherlock barely has the presence of mind left to reach beneath the cushion to pull out the bottle of lube. He squirts some into his hand then reaches down to slick himself up, then John. The feeling of John’s heavy length in his hand is beyond words. John makes a choked sort of hnng, noise and Sherlock wants to take his time and examine every ridge and vein and wrinkle, but he knows neither of them have the patience right now. Instead he grips both of their erections in his fist- he’s never been more grateful for his long fingers- and lets his body’s needs take over for the first time in years.

 

John leans on his forearms and tangles his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and just abandons himself to the pleasure of it. He kisses Sherlock messily and snaps his hips forward into the circle of Sherlock’s hand. “I love you,” he breathes against Sherlock’s spit-slicked mouth a short minute or two later. “I fucking love you,” is all he manages before he’s arching down into the glorious friction and biting Sherlock’s lip hard as he comes.

 

Sherlock’s orgasm hits the moment he feels the slick warmth splashing against his stomach and no doubt ruining his shirt, but nothing matters aside from hearing that John loves him. John slumps against him, apparently unconcerned with the mess, which is just fine because it means he’s not getting up. Sherlock wriggles his trapped hand free so he can wrap his arms around John and hold him tight.

 

“So that happened…” John finally mumbles against Sherlock’s neck.

 

“Your powers of deduction astound as always,” Sherlock replies with a teasing smile. He barely resists doing something ridiculous like finding out if John’s sides are ticklish. For about five seconds. Then he gives into temptation. No wonder John is confused, he barely recognizes himself like this. John laughs, and it is a surprised, joyful sound that makes Sherlock’s stomach flutter.

 

“It’s nice to know in some ways you’re still the arse I know and love I guess. Though I never thought you would be this...cute.”

 

“I’m not cute!” Sherlock protests. Then he considers. “Unless cute is good. Is cute good?”

 

John props himself up on his elbows and looks down at Sherlock. “This is the most bizarre conversation we’ve ever had and that’s saying something, and I’m starting to feel awkward about lying here sticky with our trousers down around our knees. How about we clean up and change so I feel mentally prepared for whatever comes next?”

 

“You can borrow one of my dressing gowns if you want to be comfortable,” Sherlock offers.

 

“I’m not wandering around in a dressing gown with Victor in the flat. Besides, that’s your thing.” John shifts into a sitting position next to Sherlock’s thigh and rather self-consciously tucks himself back into his trousers before pulling his shirt back down with a grimace at the wrinkles and wet spot.

 

“You needn’t feel uncomfortable John. We’ve just had sex on the sofa, at this point I think modesty is rather pointless don’t you?” Sherlock asks as he unbuttons his shirt and kicks his trousers and pants the rest of the way off. He pulls his knees up so he can swing himself around to sit beside John, who is staring at him in something akin to disbelief as he slides his arms out of the shirt and uses it to wipe the mess off of his stomach.

 

“You’re only in your socks,” John states in an odd tone. “I was hoping for a kiss and that you’d actually let me play with your hair and now you’re naked and casually saying things like ‘we’ve just had sex’ when I spent years convinced you weren’t even interested in sex and how is this my life?”

 

Sherlock tries to push down a sick sort of anxiety. What if John regrets this already? “Did I do this wrong? I thought you wanted- I’ve no idea what I’m doing here, and if you’re having second thoughts I don’t need-”

 

“No!” John cuts Sherlock off with a short kiss. “Nothing like that, it’s just all a bit much a bit fast and I think I’m allowed a bit of a freak out. I love you. I want you. I’m just...getting used to this. I didn’t think my day would involve you being naked before lunchtime is all.”

 

Sherlock lets out the breath he was holding. “But me being naked isn’t bad.”

 

“No, I’d be mad to complain about that. You’re bloody gorgeous,” John says as his eyes travel slowly over Sherlock’s body. His gaze pauses at the healing bullet wound and he leans down to kiss it gently, then looks up at Sherlock with a conflicted expression.

 

“It’s fine, John. We can talk about it later.”

 

John’s fingers trail over the scars from two separate knife fights on Sherlock’s side, and the scar from the cigarette burn beside his left nipple. He urges Sherlock to face away and brushes his fingers over the permanent whip marks. “And these. You’ll tell me about these,” he says, his voice low and tinged with anger and guilt.

 

“I’ll tell you anything John, whenever you feel ready to ask,” Sherlock promises, leaning back into the soft touch. John isn’t running away, so everything is going to be fine.

 

“Same. No more lies, and no more hiding what we’re thinking. Not if this is going to work.” John rubs his eyes and seems to consider what he’s just said. “Shit, this isn’t going to be easy.”

 

Sherlock turns back to John and says seriously, “I’m thinking that I’d like to take my socks off, then straddle your lap and kiss you. It seems I have a being-naked-while-you’re-clothed kink. As long as we’re practicing honesty,” he adds with a smirk.

 

John’s eyes go wide and he licks his lips. “Fucking hell, Sherlock...I may have a kink for hearing you say things like kink. I never thought you’d be one for even remotely dirty talk.”

 

Sherlock feels a thrill of accomplishment. “But you like it?” he asks as gives in and straddles John’s lap, then belatedly reaches back to take off his socks. He suddenly wants to know everything that gets John hot. Every secret desire he’s been afraid to ask for, as well as all the acts he’s comfortable with. John is his next case, and he won’t be satisfied until he knows everything.

 

John’s hands immediately move to grip Sherlock’s arse and pull him closer as he nods. “I know that look. You’re going to be the death of me, aren’t you?”

 

“I’m going to be the best you’ve ever had. I’m going to do things to you you’d never dare ask for, but you’ve always wanted. I’ll let you do things to me you’ve been afraid to ask for, are ashamed of wanting, and show you there’s nothing to be ashamed about. I want to be the life of you, John Watson. And yes, that is a horrible line and we will now pretend I’ve never said it.” Sherlock slides his hands back into John’s hair and sets to deducing how the man he loves best likes to be kissed, now that his mind is clear enough to focus.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to the incomparable Hedwig-Dordt for all of her time spent reading and re-reading this story until it makes as much sense outside of my head as it does inside of it! And thank you for all of the supportive comments, they really mean so very much to me!

It takes a good half an hour for John to finally decide he’s willing to separate for long enough to change into clean clothes. “I really do want a new shirt at least,” he insists for the third time as he gives Sherlock a playful little shove.

 

“I don’t know why you insist on wearing clothing at all, really,” Sherlock argues as he sits back to enjoy the view of John’s kiss-reddened lips and mussed hair.

 

“Because your friend is going to show back up at some point, and I don’t fancy giving him a free show. Now shove off and let me change, you menace.”

 

Sherlock pouts dramatically but gets up. Slowly. Then he turns and bends at the waist to pick his clothing up. He grins at John’s strangled groan and the hand on his arse. “Fine. Do I have to get dressed?” he asks as he turns and watches John’s eyes fixate on his half-hard cock.

 

“You really, really do. If only because I do want to spend some time today in actual conversation. And I don’t love the idea of you giving Victor getting any more bright ideas,” John comments as he stands and runs a few fingers over the fading bite mark on Sherlock’s neck. He looks at Sherlock significantly.

 

Sherlock heads for his bedroom, feeling oddly guilty. “Ah, that. There was no sex involved. No present tense sex at least. Clothes. Right. I’ll go get some on.”

 

John grabs his suitcase and follows. “What does ‘no present tense sex’ mean, exactly? And yes, fine, I’m jealous. Not because I think you still want him, but because he knows you in a way I don’t, I suppose.”

 

Sherlock grabs a dressing gown and ties it on, then pulls out a drawer to put on clean pants as he replies. “You know me in ways he doesn’t as well. And it means I was reliving a memory from my mind palace and using it for sexual release. Part of the memory was difficult for me, and he was simply...grounding me. I was overly distressed, and he was trying to calm me down so I would talk. You did say you wanted honesty,” he adds at John’s surprised look.

 

John opens the suitcase and pulls out a clean shirt. “I did.Okay, I’m assuming it was a sexual memory, so why did it upset you? He never hurt you or-”

 

“No, never that. Well, never without my wanting it at least. I’d simply forgotten the things he said to me, that last night of our summer. All good things, but it’s always been difficult for me to accept that anyone could genuinely think I’m...worthwhile, I suppose.” Sherlock sits on the edge of his bed and watches John change. He wants to grab him and pull him into bed and never let him out again, but he doesn’t. He’s feeling oddly off-balance at the current topic of conversation.

 

“That I do know, from the way you never stopped looking at me like you were shocked when I told you you were amazing, not even after years of hearing it from me. I guess even gorgeous geniuses can have low self-esteem. I’ll just have to tell you I think you’re amazing more often until it sinks in,” John concludes as he holds out his hand for Sherlock to take. “But no more bites from Victor,” he states in a firm voice.

 

Sherlock stands and takes John’s hand, and allows himself to be pulled in for a wonderfully possessive kiss. “Where are we going? There’s a perfectly serviceable bed right here.”

 

“There is, but my body wants thing my mind isn’t ready for, if that makes sense. I want everything with you, Sherlock, I do. And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’ll feel more comfortable taking things slowly.”

 

“Anything you want, John. If all I do is kiss you for a few days I’ll be content. There’s so much data I still need to collect. I don’t even know how you like to be kissed at different times of the day, or based on mood, or if you taste different based on the PH level of your saliva, or-”

 

John cuts Sherlock off with an exasperated kiss. “Just promise me you’ll also remember to enjoy kissing instead of just treating it like an experiment. I know better than to ask you not to keep spreadsheets on types of kisses, but I don’t want it to _feel_ like an experiment, okay?”

 

Sherlock blinks. How had he not thought of spreadsheets? John is brilliant as always, he concludes as he teases, “Not even two hours into this relationship and you’re ruining all my fun.”

 

John rolls his eyes and pulls Sherlock back out to the sitting room. “You know, it’s nice not to need handcuffs as an excuse to do this,” he comments as he leads them over to his chair. “I’ve no idea if this is even possible, but after years spent wondering if you’d ever get up out of your chair to join me in mine, I’ve got to at least see if we fit.”

 

John sits down and Sherlock urges him over to the right side so he can wedge his arse between John’s outer thigh and one side of the chair as he swings his legs up to drape them over the opposite arm. “It’s either this or I sit mostly in your lap and rest my thighs diagonally over yours, because I won’t be able to spread my legs enough to properly straddle you," he says as he wraps his arms around John’s waist.

 

“Yeah, this may have been better in my head, but it works for now,” John replies as he runs one hand up Sherlock’s thigh and the other slips behind his neck, a position he already seems to prefer.

 

Sherlock leans into the light press of fingers against his neck, encouraging. “It does. Now explain about the handcuffs. Did you really enjoy that? I let go after we’d gotten our strides together enough not to trip, because I thought it would make you uncomfortable.”

 

“I’ve always enjoyed touching you,” John says, ducking his face and toying with the curls at Sherlock’s nape. “But that was extra nice, even if it was only for a minute and we were fugitives at the time. Surely you felt _something.”_

 

“I felt that your hand was sweating,” Sherlock replies with a mock-serious face.

 

John pokes Sherlock in the stomach. “Try not to be a dickhead for once in your life. This stuff is difficult enough for me to talk about without you being so _you._ ”

 

“You are being surprisingly forthcoming right now...do you have a window of pliant John after sex? I’ll have to take advantage of that.”

 

“What?”

 

“Victor liked to say he had a ten minute window of pliant Sherlock after I got good sleep or good sex, and he’d use it to get me talking about things I was reticent to discuss. So, feelings in general.”

 

John laughs. “I’ll have to remember that. And I guess I do, but I’d say my window lasts a few hours. After sex at least, not so much sleep. I’m not a morning person as you will recall.”

 

“Really? One of these days let’s run an experiment where I suck you off every three hours to see if you can stay in a talkative mood all day. I could learn all sorts of interesting things.”

 

John’s fingers tighten in Sherlock’s hair. “Damn. I’m never going to get used to you saying things like that.”

 

Sherlock leans in and kisses John’s lower lip then bites it gently. “Good. Now, about the hand holding. I was thinking about those first months we lived together, and how often you touched me. Little things, like a hand on my lower back in passing if I was in your way in the kitchen, or a clap on the shoulder before going up to bed. But I didn’t react in an encouraging manner.”

 

“Definitely not. You just sort of froze, or tensed up for a  few seconds, so I stopped. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

 

“I wasn’t uncomfortable, I was just...surprised. That you’d _want_ to touch me. Call it self-preservation. I knew, from my experience with Victor, how quickly I can come to crave this.” He slides his hand into the one resting on his thigh and laces their fingers together, then kisses the back of John’s hand. “I was afraid to let myself want it when I couldn’t have you. Not like that. It was safer to ignore my attraction to you. I was alone for so long, and I knew within one day of meeting you I had to keep you. The man who called me ‘brilliant’ instead of ‘freak.’ Who didn’t run away after I dragged him to a crime scene.”

 

“Which you promptly abandoned me at. You’re lucky you’re so bloody gorgeous.”

 

“I know. And I’m sorry for being so horrible to you and that I’m likely to continue being an arse. But now you can at least spank me when I deserve it,” Sherlock adds in a sly voice, watching John closely for his reaction.

 

John licks his lips and swallows hard. “I’m not- I mean- oddly that sounds rather hot, but I’m not so sure it’s a good idea. I have anger issues, which you’re intimately familiar with. Practically the first thing I did when I saw you was to hit you because I was mad at you. I’m not sure I trust myself enough to play with anything that could hurt you.”

 

“So never when you’re upset with me. But I’m not opposed to rough sex as long as I know it’s coming from a place of desire, not anger.”

 

“I can hardly believe we’re having this conversation. I didn’t even think you liked kissing or sex or being touched, and now you’re offering rough sex.” John shakes his head incredulously. “ Do you think it would have worked? If I’d just come home one day and kissed you, would it have worked?”

 

“Let’s not talk about that, John. I’m more interested in hearing more about how sexually frustrated my lounging about Buckingham Palace in a sheet made you,” Sherlock teases.

 

“God that was awful! But that was nothing compared to all those times you wandered about the flat in only your dressing gown because you couldn’t be arsed to put on clothes. Or played your violin ever. Or flirted with Irene. Or the cookie dough incident.”

 

“You do remember that! Victor and I just made some dough to eat and it honestly didn’t hit me until I was telling him, how much of a tease that must have been. I was just in such a good mood after the case, and I wanted you to be pleased with what I’d made for you. Would you like some more, now that you can suck on my fingers all you want? It’s in the ice box.”

 

“That would require you moving, so maybe later. So you have some kind of food kink then?” John asks in his, ‘ _I’m not sure my deductions are correct and I’m afraid you’re going to make fun of me if they aren’t’_ voice.  

 

Sherlock’s stomach does a little flip at how adorably nervous John seems to be at bringing up the subject at all. “You should know I’ll never find any conversations regarding sexual preferences anything short of fascinating, John. There’s so much I don’t know about you, and I want to know everything. Whether it’s if you prefer to be in control, or if you’d find it arousing to urinate on me.”

 

John looks horrified. “What? No. God, no!”

 

“I just want to be sure you understand talking about sexual things doesn’t unnerve me at all, despite what Mycroft insinuates. There’s nothing you could suggest that would make me think any less of you. That’s a perfectly acceptable kink John, and surely as a doctor you’re aware that urine is sterile. Though I’ll admit Victor had much the same reaction. It took me weeks to convince him to try it just so I’d know for sure I don’t particularly enjoy it.”

 

John grimaces. “You know, I’m actually starting to feel more gratitude than jealousy regarding that relationship. Especially if it means that I don’t have to try things like that just to satisfy your curiosity.”

 

Sherlock  frowns. “I would never force you into something you didn’t want, John.”

 

“No, you would just ask over and over again until I took the path of least resistance and gave in. I’m impressed Victor held out for weeks, really.”

 

Sherlock pouts dramatically. “Well there’s nothing wrong with _asking.”_

 

“Not inherently, no. But promise me if I tell you I really don’t want something and I know I’m not going to change my mind, that you’ll respect my decision enough not to ask again.”

 

“That’s acceptable. And no, no food kink that I’m aware of. Well, not in terms of licking chocolate sauce off of you at least. Pointlessly messy, that whole business. Though I would enjoy it very much if you were to feed me bites from your hand.”

 

John’s pupils dilate as he clearly envisions that. “Really? You mean all I had to do to convince you to eat for years was feed you myself? You know, that would have been important information to know when I was half-convinced you were going to starve to death on long cases.”

 

“Quite likely. Victor used to tease me about being the lazy one since I generally preferred to make him do most of the work, even though he actually likes being in charge.”

 

“And you don’t? You’re such a control freak I always thought if you were to like sex you’d like being…on top, I guess. ” John examines the fabric on Sherlock’s knee, clearly embarrassed.

 

“And that makes you uncomfortable?”

 

“I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, sometimes I like a finger or two while I’m being sucked off, but you’re significantly larger than that.”

 

Sherlock guides John’s face towards his own and kisses him softly. “You know there doesn’t have to be a ‘top’ and a ‘bottom’ in a relationship, right? I suppose there can be for some people, but as far as I know while I generally prefer being penetrated, I do enjoy it the other way around as well. But to answer your vague question more clearly, when it comes to sex I prefer submission to dominance. Victor used to say it was because I used up my dominating tendencies on all the other aspects of my life. He may have a point.”

 

John cocks his head, clearly surprised. Then a teasing grin spreads across his face. “So you’re saying when it comes to sex, you’ll listen to me for once in your life?”

 

Sherlock smirks. “If you’re using your commanding officer voice, definitely. For example, if you were to decide going slow includes my sucking you off with no expectation that you’ll do the same for me, and you were to make it an order…” He looks from beneath his lashes at John in what he hopes is a seductive manner. He’s rather out of practice. “I find your Captain Watson tone arousing. And if you were to dig up a uniform from somewhere…” He shivers at the very thought.

 

John swallows hard. He looks like he wants to try it, but he’s clearly nervous.

 

“John. I won’t make light of this, I promise. I won’t think it sounds ridiculous, if you’re concerned. Here, I’ll show you.” Sherlock slides off of John’s lap to kneel between his legs. He runs his hands up John’s thighs and slides his fingers into the stip of cloth covering the zip of the trousers, and lowers his voice to a rumbling purr. “I’ve imagined you like this. While we were drunk and you were sitting here just like this, I wanted to crawl over and suck you off. Would’ve done it if you’d asked. I want to wrap my fingers around you and slick you up with my saliva and watch you wanting me. I want to slide my fingers inside of you while your erection hits the back of my throat. I want your semen in my throat, on my face, and your fist in my hair. Please.” He looks up at John’s hard breathing and parted lips. “Now, did that sound ridiculous?

 

John’s posture shifts subtly and his expression becomes one of confident determination, and the jumping vein in his neck is the only thing that betrays his nerves. He reaches out to run a finger over Sherlock’s lips. “Not this. Not yet. I want your hands, Sherlock.”

 

“I can do both,” Sherlock breathes, nipping at the tip of John’s finger. He wants to taste. Needs it.

 

“No.” John’s voice is firm and commanding. “Only your hands.”

 

Sherlock’s cock twitches because that _voice._ “Do you have a thing for my hands, John? Or a thing for knowing I want, but I can’t have until you say so?” He’s almost certain he’s right, but doesn’t think John is comfortable enough to tell him so directly yet. At least he hopes he’s right.

 

“Both,” John confirms. “Go on then, deduce what I like,” he challenges as he leans back and rests his hands on the arms of his chair.

 

Sherlock grins and flicks open the button on John’s trousers. He does so love a challenge. “And what happens if I can’t resist keeping my mouth off of you? I have…authority issues, as you well know.” He drags the zipper down and leans forward to nose his way into the gap and mouth at the cloth-covered erection. He’s curious how far John is willing to take this game. A second later he gasps in shocked pleasure as a firm hand tangles in his hair.

 

John pulls Sherlock’s head back sharply and meets his gaze with a look that would make any soldier snap to attention. “Then I’ll make you sit there and watch while I get myself off, and I won’t even let you lick me clean. Understood?”

 

Sherlock doesn’t even try to hold back the ragged whimper that escapes him at the grounding pain and the thrill of being at the center of John’s focus. “Yes,” he breathes.

 

“You like this,” John murmurs, his voice tinged with awe.

 

“Obviously,” Sherlock snarks, because he’s still himself even like this.

 

John smiles at the familiar petulant tone. “Good,” he replies as he removes his hand and lifts his hips suggestively.

 

Sherlock takes the hint and hooks his hands into John’s pants and pulls them down along with the trousers. John doesn’t try to stop him, so he pulls them all the way off. “I knew you shouldn’t have bothered with clothes,” he comments as he kisses the inside of John’s knee.

 

“Hands, Sherlock,” John growls impatiently.

 

Sherlock slides his hands up John’s bare thighs, memorizing the sensation of the flexing muscles, the way John’s erection jumps as his hands get closer. He starts slowly by cupping John’s testicles with one hand and rolling them gently as the other runs through the thicker blonde hair at the base of his cock. He’s transfixed as he finally get the chance to examine John up close. “Do you want me to get the lube?”

 

“Just lick your hand for now, I’d like to enjoy this for a while.”

 

Sherlock does, and then wraps his hand lightly around John’s length. He lets out a shaky breath and resists the urge to scoot forward enough to rut against the front of the chair as he begins cataloging the sensations. _Eighteen centimeters long, curving to the right, fourteen centimeters in circumference, circumcised…_

 

“Tell me,” John orders.

 

Sherlock looks up at him uncertainly.

 

“Tell me. I’m so used to you showing off your deductions that your silence is almost disturbing. Besides, your voice gets me hot and you know it,” John adds.

 

“I do now,” Sherlock purrs. He’s definitely caught on to John liking him saying even remotely dirty things, but didn’t realize it had anything to do with his voice in general. This calls for more experimentation with tone, so he drops his voice as low as he can. “You have a gorgeous cock, John,” he tries.

 

“Not like porn, like you. There’s no way in hell you were thinking that,” John admonishes, though the timbre of his voice and flush of his cheeks indicates he enjoyed the way Sherlock said it, if not the what.

 

Sherlock slides his hand slowly up and pauses to run the pad of his thumb over the drop of leaking fluid and circle it around the corona. He grins when John sucks in a breath and rocks his hips up into the sensation. “True. I was thinking that your penis flushes the exact color of your tongue, that the curve would lie perfectly along the base of my violin, that I want to lick up the veins of your shaft and flick my tongue over the slight circumcision scar beneath the corona. That I want to wrap my mouth around your glands and suck the preseminal fluid out. I’m considering how amazing it’s going to feel when all of this,” he slides his hand more firmly up and down while twisting his wrist, “is going to feel when it’s stimulating my rectal nerve endings and prostate.”  

 

John’s hand reaches out to tangle in Sherlock’s hair again. “Fuck. It’s a sign of how gone for you I am that I actually found all of that hot.” He clears his throat to regain his commanding voice. “Keep going.”

 

Sherlock does. He uses both hands and focuses all of his deductive powers on what makes John squirm and shiver, breathe harder, the hand carding through Sherlock’s hair tighten, and keeps up a running dialogue of his discoveries. John isn’t terribly vocal, which isn’t actually surprising, but his body speaks volumes. The signs of John’s imminent orgasm are easy to spot, so Sherlock slows his hands whenever it approaches in order to prolong the experience.

 

“Don’t you dare stop this time,” John finally pants the fourth time his hips are jerking forward and his thighs are shaking with the need to come.

 

Sherlock considers for a moment, his eyes fixed on the fascinatingly unfamiliar expressions flashing across John’s face. He finally settles on simply continuing the steady, firm motion he has going with his right hand and at the last second he pulls his left away from where his fingers are pressing in light circles behind John’s testicles. He cups his hand to catch the ejaculate and nearly orgasms untouched at the utterly wrecked picture John makes.

 

“Fuck. Oh, fuck, Sherlock, gods but you’re fucking perfect,” John rambles nearly incoherently as he flops bonelessly back into one corner of the chair. His expression goes from adoringly sated to intensely focused as he watches Sherlock turn his hand palm up to begin licking himself clean.

 

Sherlock keeps his eyes on John as he laps up the semen before it can cool, and analyzes the taste. Bitter, musky, vaguely oceanic...it frustrates him at how difficult it is to label due to a lack of comparative flavors. Not terribly pleasant, but worth it for the way John is looking at him like he’s some sort of deity. “How was that for a first try?” he smirks as he wipes his hand dry on the bottom of his dressing gown.

 

“Fantastic. Now you. I want you to kneel there and show me how you get yourself off. How you like to be touched. I was planning on doing you next, but you look too good like that.”

 

Sherlock’s trapped erection jumps at the order. As much as he’d like John’s hand on him, the idea of showing off for him like this is definitely enticing. He lets the dressing gown slide off of his shoulders,hooks his thumbs into the band of his pants, and then cocks his head and looks up at John. “I’m sufficiently aroused that I could reach completion within seconds of touching myself, but I doubt that’s what you want. I’d like you to tell me when you want me to finish.”

 

“I should’ve known you’d be into kinky sex,” John says in a pleased tone as he reaches down to grab his discarded clothes and slip them back on. “I feel strange sitting here half-naked,” he shrugs at Sherlock’s quirked brow. “Besides, you said you like being naked while I’m not.”

 

“This is kinky sex?” Sherlock asks, genuinely confused. He’d actually been thinking it was rather tame.

 

John looks uncertain. “Well yeah. I’d say this counts as kinky, yeah.”

 

Sherlock grins as he slips out of his pants and kneels with his thighs spread. “Oh John, we’re going to have _such_ fun.” He licks his palm, which still tastes and smells of John, and wraps his hand around his length to slide it up and down as far as the slide of skin will allow. Generally he prefers to use some sort of lubrication, but he doesn’t really want to stop to get it.

 

“Is the head of your cock more sensitive, since you’re uncircumcised? I’ve no idea how foreskin plays into wanking,” John says, sounding genuinely curious as he watches Sherlock’s hand avidly.

 

“I don’t know. We can try running some comparative experiments if you’d like. And I’ve never played with an uncut penis before yours, so I’m not sure about the differences. You tell me if it looks different,” he suggests before he sucks the middle and pointer fingers of his left hand into his mouth then brings them behind himself to brush over his anus.  

 

“Do you always finger yourself then?” John asks, his hand coming down to press against his crotch. “I’m not even certain I can get hard again so quickly, but my body sure as hell wants to. Damn but you look good like this.”

 

“I generally do, yes. Two fingers, sometimes three. And I’m relieved that you find my nudity pleasing. I’d hoped, but I wasn’t sure you’d be this comfortable with it so quickly,” Sherlock admits as he slides the tips of his fingers inside and has to grip the base of his erection hard to prevent himself from getting too excited. The hungry look John is giving him is dangerously arousing.

 

“I think I got all my awkwardness out during years of fantasies. You’ve no idea how many times I wanked to the thought of your mouth, your hands, of coming home from a case and fucking you over the back of this chair, or wondering what would happen if I were to just crawl on top of you and kiss you during one of your staring at the ceiling for days on end phases. I just never dared tell you for fear of ruining our friendship.”

 

Sherlock groans and snaps his hips forward into his fist, then back to bury his fingers as deeply as possible. It could use some lube, but the slight ache keeps him from coming on the spot. “You need to do that. Fuck me over your chair. Soon. Whenever you’re ready. But quite quickly,” he adds as he tightens his fist and speeds it up, letting his fingers slide up over the glans and then back down. “If you want me to stop you need to say so,” he manages, his own voice nearly unrecognizable in its desperation.

 

“No, I want you to. Don’t stop. Come on your chest, Sherlock, let me see it.”

 

Sherlock arches his back and clenches down onto his fingers as warmth splashes onto his chest and begins dripping immediately down, but he’s too caught up in the white-hot pleasure of his orgasm to care. For a few seconds all he can do is close his eyes and try to catch his breath, and he snaps them back open with a  start at the sensation of John’s tongue swiping across his sternum.

 

“It only seemed fair,” John says as he leans forward from his own kneeling position to get both hands in Sherlock’s hair and kiss him. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” he breathes against Sherlock’s lips before sitting back to grab the discarded pants and clean the rest of the mess off.

 

“I’m not bothering with new ones,” Sherlock declares as he gets up shakily then offers John his hand. He leans back down to grab the dressing gown and slide it back on. “Sofa?”

 

“Good idea,” John agrees. “The chair is a bit of a tight fit.” He sits into the corner of the sofa and lets his outside leg rest on the ground while he pulls his inside knee up to lean against the back.

 

Sherlock climbs into the open space and leans his back against John’s chest. John’s hands immediately come around to rest on his stomach, and Sherlock laces their fingers together. “You’re good at this,” he comments as he snuggles back into the comforting warmth and strength.

 

“I’ve had more practice,” John comments as he rests his cheek on Sherlock’s curls. “That was amazing Sherlock, thank you.”

 

“It wasn’t too much?”

 

“I’m not sure there is too much when it comes to you. Maybe too soon, but that was fine. I’ll tell you if I’m not ready for something, I promise.”

 

“Good. We have years to experiment, so there’s no rush.” Sherlock pauses. “We do have years, don’t we?”

 

“Definitely. I can’t give this up, that’s for sure. I’m not- well  I’m just not sure how Mary fits in. I want her to fit in, don’t get me wrong, just...right now for example, where would she fit in?”

 

Sherlock considers. “We may need a bigger sofa, I’ll admit. But I’m thinking we would switch places, and you could easily still hold her the way you’re holding me. At least as long as she’s pregnant she’s really only going to fit on the outside.”

 

John laughs. “Okay, that was more literal than I was thinking but you do have a point.”

 

“Ah, I see. She said we’d discuss it at length, so I’m thinking she’s the brains behind this particular operation. But she’s in love with you, and I’m in love with you, and you’re….”

 

“In love with both of you, yes. You just like to hear me say it, don’t you?”

 

Sherlock pulls John’s hand up to kiss it. “Obviously. And she and I care for each other, and more importantly we understand each other. The reasoning behind her actions makes sense to me, even if they don’t to you. And you’re allowed to be upset at her for the things she’s done, but John...it hurts enough knowing we’ve hurt you. When you do the thing where you leave and don’t talk to us it’s an agonizing punishment. I was miserable until this morning, even with Victor around to lighten my mood.”

 

John tightens his grip on Sherlock. “I’m sorry. I just get so angry, and you’re right, I can’t understand why she lied to me. I’m still barely accepting of why _you_ lied to me. It’s not easy for me to get over this kind of thing. And maybe you’re not the only one who has a difficult time understanding why anyone would miss him.”

 

Sherlock arches his neck back kisses John lightly. And again. “Can we just agree to both believe it’s true, even if we can’t see why?”

 

“We can try,” John agrees before licking Sherlock’s upper lip.

 

Well, that’s about as much talking as he’s ready to deal with anyway, Sherlock decides as he pulls up his knees and angles himself towards John in order to kiss him more comfortably. This time there is no desperation, just a languid, gluttonous sort of kissing that is unlike anything he’s ever experienced. It’s slow and deep and makes his stomach flutter pleasantly, and he wonders if they can just do this for the next few hours. He’s certainly not going to get bored.

 

Some time later Sherlock hears the door opening quietly, but he doesn’t bother turning to look since he knows it’s only Victor.  Besides, he’s rather enjoying the way their kisses have slowed to a mere sharing of breath and light brushing of lips since neither of them is inclined to pull away. John is apparently so inclined a moment later, however, when he realizes they’re not alone.

 

Victor gives a low wolf whistle. “You two look hot together,” he declares, eyeing the recently–taken picture on his mobile.

 

John pulls away with a startled little jump. “Ever hear of knocking?”

 

Sherlock can feel the nervous tension in John’s body. Fortunately, he suspects he knows how to diffuse it.  “Really Victor, we could’ve been naked and covered in jam for all you knew,” he drawls with a wink, snuggling back obviously and reaching his arms back so he can lace his fingers behind John’s neck. John does in fact relax.

 

Victor rolls his eyes. “No you couldn’t have been, since I know you detest combining food and sex. Though the lack of nudity really is a shame. Still, at least this is a photo you can frame. I’ll send you a copy.” He walks over to the sofa and holds out his mobile so they can see the picture.

 

“It’s lovely. Isn’t it lovely, John?” Sherlock asks in a tone that asks to be agreed with.

 

John looks at it for a moment. “It is actually, yeah. We look…”

 

“Stupidly in love,” Victor supplies before leaning down to kiss Sherlock on the nose. “I’ve never seen you this content. I’m happy for you.” He turns to John and holds out a hand tentatively as if he’s about to clap him on the shoulder. “May I?”

 

“May you what?” John asks uncertainly, holding Sherlock a bit tighter and sounding displeased.

 

Victor just smiles knowingly. “You’ve nothing to worry about, John. I haven’t kissed him on the mouth and I won’t. Me kissing him on the nose is just our thing. And despite that little emergency situation earlier, I don’t generally make it a practice to touch people without their permission.”

 

John huffs. “You have a thing? Sherlock, do we have a thing?”

 

“According to your friends, your thing is eye-fucking when the other one isn’t looking,” Victor offers with an amused shrug.

 

“Do you want a thing?” Sherlock asks curiously.

 

“Of course I want a thing. All couples have things. I tug on this bit of Mary’s hair behind her ear that always manages to stick out,” John replies. “And I’m not sure I’m comfortable with you touching me,” he tells Victor.

 

Victor nods and backs away to lean on the table. “That’s fine. And don’t worry about the thing, it’ll develop naturally I’m sure. I only started doing it because it used to make his nose wrinkle up adorably and he’d give me this confused look, like why the hell would I want to do something that ridiculous? So I kept it up, of course. You’re no doubt aware how cute he looks when he’s confused.”

 

John smiles despite himself. “It is pretty adorable.”

 

“I hate both of you,” Sherlock grumbles, though he’s actually thrilled that John and Victor are being civil.

 

“No you don’t,” John and Victor chorus.

 

Victor grins. “Well I’m actually here to make lunch, so I’ll just head into the kitchen and make sandwiches. No need to stop with the kissing on my account. Or the sex. Definitely sans jam, because even if that’s your kind of thing John, this one has neglected the shopping again and is out of it.” He winks and saunters over to the icebox to begin getting out supplies.

 

John watches him go with a complicated expression on his face. “Is he some sort of voyeur?”

 

Sherlock laughs and sits up to face John. “He’s a photographer. Of course he’s a voyeur. Not that you were complaining about watching me masturbate earlier…”

 

John flushes. “Sherlock!” His eyes dart out to the kitchen.

 

“Yep, I can hear you!” Victor calls in amusement. “And Sherlock is the biggest show-off I’ve ever met in my life, of course the man has exhibitionistic tendencies. It’s probably a good thing if you like to watch.”

 

“He has a point,” Sherlock admits, his pulse jumping at the way John licks his lips and his eyes go unfocussed. “I haven’t explored it much clearly, but…” He leans in to whisper in John’s ear. “For example, I think I’d very much like to suck you off while Mary watches.” He hasn’t actually considered it until this moment, but now that he is…he finds he actually does want it.

 

“Fuck,” John breathes, obviously aroused by the idea.

 

Sherlock swings his legs over John’s thigh and runs a hand down his chest. “Maybe she’ll even grab my hair and direct me,” he purrs as a spike of arousal makes his entire body tingle pleasantly. Yes, this could definitely have potential, the three of them.

 

“Christ, how am I meant to survive the both of you?” John asks in an awed voice as he kisses Sherlock possessively.

 

Sherlock wants to drag John off to his room and beg to be fucked, but he’s not far gone enough to have forgotten that John said he wants to go slowly. Instead he slides off of the couch and urges John back into a normal sitting position so he can straddle his lap. The dressing gown falls open at the front, so John can see everything but he’s still covered enough to block Victor’s view. Right, Victor. Sherlock pulls out of the kiss and looks over at the kitchen. “Weren’t you meant to be making sandwiches?” he calls.

 

Victor is leaning against the door watching them with a distinctly sappy expression on his face. “You two are way more interesting than sandwiches,” he replies with a smirk, but he does go back to making them.

 

John visibly forces himself to calm down, though he doesn’t release his grip on Sherlock’s arse.

“So Victor, how long will you be staying?”

 

“Well I did just get here a few days ago and I haven’t seen Sherlock since he had spots, so I wasn’t planning on leaving tomorrow or anything. Don’t worry though, I won’t just hang around being a cock block. Molly said she’d show me around her work, so I’ll head over there after lunch. And Greg said he’d love to re-introduce me to all the good pubs,” Victor replies.

 

“He’s already on a first name basis with our friends?” John asks incredulously.

 

“It would seem so. Even though he’s an arse he’s learned to be a charming one, unlike myself. I’ve no idea what you see in me, John.” Sherlock finds he’s only half-joking.

 

“Now you’re just fishing for compliments,” John replies with a grin. Then he squints his eyes and looks at Sherlock closely. “Or not...”

 

Sherlock feels vaguely guilty at his own insecurities. It’s not a comfortable feeling. “Of course I am. I’m-“

 

“No, you’re serious. I can generally tell when you’re full of shit, despite what Mary thinks. Okay, I’ll…this is going to be a mess since I’ve never tried to put it into words before, I’m afraid.” He considers for a moment, and then takes a deep breath. “I’m a doctor. And I joined the army.”

 

“Not exactly new information,” Sherlock points out, uncertain where he’s going with this.

 

“Just be quiet and listen for once in your life, I’m trying to be romantic here,” John grits out, his voice belying how awkward he finds the words despite his determination to get them out.

Sherlock, impossibly, feels just a bit more in love with him for the effort. “I’m listening.”

 

“Right. But I’m not sure you know _why_ I became an army doctor.” John pauses, as if to check if Sherlock is going to interrupt, before continuing. “I have what my therapist refers to as an intense desire to be needed. To feel like I matter, in some way. My mum called me an adrenaline junkie when I was young because I was forever launching myself off of fence tops in an attempt to fly, or falling out of trees, what have you. So joining the army to become a doctor made perfect sense. It was everything I’d ever wanted. The bombs and the guns and the constant threat of danger, the knowledge I was saving lives. I felt…alive. Whole, you know?”

 

“I wish I’d seen known you then. You must’ve been incandescent,” Sherlock murmurs, leaning in for a quick kiss because he can.

 

John begins carding one hand through Sherlock’s hair. “And then it was over, just like that. One stray bullet and my life was over. That’s what it felt like. You’ve no idea…coming back to a one room flat and the mind-numbingly ordinary world. Everything was cold and gray and people looked at me with such pity with my limp and my cane. I wasn’t sure I could do it, Sherlock. Some days my gun looked extra appealing.”

 

“John,” Sherlock breathes, a sickening sort of terror taking hold at the very idea of a world without this man.

 

“And then suddenly, there was you. There was excitement and mystery and danger and sure you were rather an arse to me half of the time, but you never once pitied me. You would never admit it, but you needed me. You needed me with you on cases, and to remind you when you were behaving in ways that were a bit not good, and you were incapable of even doing the bloody shopping, and as much as I complained about it I liked that you needed me even for that. You let me into your life, and you make me feel like I matter. I want to live so I can see what mess you’ll get us into next. And that’s why I put up with you. So.” John bites his lip nervously.

 

For once Sherlock is at a loss for words, and it takes him a few moments before he can form any coherently. “I don’t think I can say anything I didn’t in my speech, except that I love you and I need you and I want you to stay with me. I’d propose, but I maintain marriage is a ridiculous institution. And you’re already married, so there’s that.”

 

John laughs. “Yeah, I don’t think even Mycroft could pull enough strings for that one to be legal. So we’re good?”

 

Sherlock settles for kissing John instead of replying, and he doesn’t stop until he hears Victor clear his throat exaggeratedly from right next to the sofa.

 

“That was the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” Victor declares as he sets two sandwich-laden plates down on the coffee table and shoves it closer to the sofa. “Well done, John. I have officially decided I approve of you.”

 

John looks as if he’s forgotten Victor was there. “Thanks?”

 

“You’re welcome,” Victor replies brightly. “Well, as it turns out I’ve decided I’m going to take Molly out to lunch and try to suss out if she’s as interested in that silver fox as he seems to be in her. I may as well get another adorable couple together as long as I’m here,” he says with a wink. “How you all survived without me is a complete mystery. Now you two eat something and then go have lots of hot sex. Not that you have the supplies for getting terribly creative at the moment. I searched your room while you were in the shower Sherlock, and couldn’t come up with so much as a vibrator, so I’ll do some shopping while I’m out. Oh, and I warned Mrs. Hudson, so she won’t get concerned about the noise if you get loud. Later!” he calls before breezing back out the door.

 

John looks as if he’s still trying to catch up with what just happened. “He just came up here to check on you, didn’t he?”

 

“I’m certain of it. Sorry about the sex toy thing, he means well but boundaries aren’t his strong point.”

 

“Actually, I’m just now imagining you in a sex shop and I’m thinking he’s doing me a favor…you’d be an absolute terror.”

 

“Just for that you’re taking me some day. With Mary,” Sherlock adds with an evil grin. “Speaking of, we should text her. She asked to know how we were getting along, so she’d know if she had to come over and smash our faces together herself.”

 

John smiles softly. “That sounds like her. I didn’t reply to her text about it being alright with her if we’re having sex. I didn’t know what to say to that, and I wasn’t sure if she was just saying it to make me happy or if she really was okay with it…” He sighs. “I know, my turn to be a bit not good. I’d just really like to stop being confused and upset by the people I love from this point on.”

Sherlock feels another twinge of guilt. “I know. Mary and I agreed we have to do better, because you deserve better than we’ve treated you. We know, John, trust me. Would you like me to text her?”

 

“No, I’ll do it.”

 

Sherlock nods and gets off of John’s lap so he can get his mobile out of his coat pocket, and feels a sense of pleased relief when John comes back to sit so close their thighs are brushing.

John opens a text from Victor and looks at the picture of he and Sherlock kissing. “It really is a good picture.”

 

“You should send it to her. She did ask for pictures, and videos if possible.”

 

“She would. She’s got a dirty mind like you, I’m actually rather looking forward to finding out what you two can come up with when you’re working together,” John admits.  He hits forward on the picture and adds: _Sherlock says we’re going to need a bigger sofa once you’re here as well. I still love you, Mrs. Watson._

 

A reply comes after only a few moments. _Tell Sherlock I’m more concerned about the bed. You two look hot together. And I love you too. I know you boys need some time, so let me know when you want me. I’m happy for you, truly I am._

 

Sherlock grabs the mobile and types: _We need you here to sort things out nearly as much as we need time. Just give us another day. Your husband hasn’t even let me suck him off yet. What are your feelings regarding strap-ons? –SH_

 

“Sherlock!” John yells, making a grab for the mobile.

 

Sherlock gets up and escapes to the far side of the table as the mobile buzzes a reply. “She says, _I think he’ll be upset if I fuck you before he does, darling_.” He laughs as John chases him around the table, and allows himself to be caught after only two revolutions. “What? I can be playful,” he insists at John’s look of surprise as he pins Sherlock against the table.

 

“I have to learn you all over again, don’t I?” John asks, his voice filled with the joy of discovery.

 

“Looks like,” Sherlock acknowledges. “Now, what shall we say in reply?”

 

John takes the mobile back and types: _John again. And yes, I get to fuck him first. Do consider that strap on though. Thank you for this. Kisses, Love._

“Kisses?” Sherlock asks dubiously.

 

“Shut up, she thinks it’s cute. We’re going to be okay aren’t we,” John says as if realizing it for the first time. The relief in his voice is palpable.

  
“We’re going to be okay.” Sherlock leans down for another  kiss and knows he’ll do anything to make sure it’s true.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly me indulging in writing all the lovely sex, but come on, when these two finally got together what else would happen for a while? : ) They will have more talking and interaction with Victor in the next chapter. Thanks ever so to all of you lovely readers for following along with this wip! I suspect we're around the halfway point. 
> 
> Lots of extra love and thanks to the brilliant Hedwig-Dordt for all of her cheerleading and editing and support!!

They do finally make it back to the sofa to eat their sandwiches, mostly because Sherlock insists John needs to eat as he skipped breakfast and needs to keep his strength up. It feels like an odd role reversal. Though he is thrilled to discover that using a suggestive tone means John complies without his typical eye roll and put-upon sigh. He files that information away for future use.  

 

"So...what do we do now?" John asks, bumping his thigh against Sherlock's.

 

"What do you want to do? What would you normally do on a Saturday? I’m sure your schedule has changed since we lived together." Sherlock knows exactly what he’d like to be doing, but that would require John to be wearing significantly fewer clothes. John seems a bit nervous again, and he wonders what he did to cause the tension.

 

“Go for a run. Read the paper. Do the shopping. Spend time with Mary. I don’t know what do now though. I mean, we don’t have a case on, and it feels different. With us. What do you want to do?”

 

Sherlock opts for honesty. “I want to lay you down on my bed and strip you naked and learn every inch of your skin by touch and taste. Then I want to suck you off, and when you're satisfied I want to curl up with you under the covers while you run your hands over my skin and through my hair. If you want, that is.”

 

John visibly relaxes. "Well I suppose as plans go that's hardly your worst one. That works for now, yeah. But what about next Saturday? And the one after that? We can’t just be naked all the time.”

 

For once Sherlock finds he doesn't want to plan ten moves ahead. He just wants John to think about this, about now. To think only about them. “For now we can. Can't we just worry about now? I’m feeling jealous of your attention,” he admits with difficulty.

 

John smiles reassuringly and scoots closer to wrap his arms around Sherlock’s waist. “I’m right here. You have my attention, I promise.”

 

“You’re thinking about later. I don’t have _all_ your attention,” Sherlock points out. He knows he sounds like what John calls his usual petulant self, but he can’t help it.

 

“Then maybe you should do something brilliant and _make_ me stop thinking about anything else," John challenges with a distinctly flirtatious smirk.

 

Sherlock's heart rate speeds up as he finds himself on the receiving end of John's trademark charm. “I do love a challenge," he drawls before grabbing two fistfulls of John's jumper and pulling him in for a bruising kiss. He considers attempting to just carry John to bed, but he's still not in any condition to try something like that. He growls in frustration and drags John to his feet.

 

John laughs into Sherlock’s mouth. “That’s a good start, but you're going to have to do better."

 

Sherlock urges John in the general direction of his bedroom, and it's far more of a stumbling mess than he would prefer but he's too busy trying to keep kissing John while walking at the same time to be his usual exacting self. The backs of his knees finally make contact with the bed, and he decides the easiest thing is to simply fall back onto it and pull John down along with him.

 

“You’re a bloody menace!" John struggles to maneuver them into the center of the bed, only to find himself suddenly flipped over onto his back the moment he does.  

 

Sherlock sits up just long enough to strip off his dressing gown and toss it onto the floor and then he is leaning down to grab the bottom of John’s jumper and tug it up over his head. This is not as smooth as he’d hoped either, as he only succeeds in getting it stuck and John is laughing and flailing as he tries to help. When it finally comes off John's hair is mussed and the corners of his eyes are crinkling and Sherlock _loves_ him. Has the fleeting urge to dissect him to figure out what it is that makes him so different, so magnetic, so necessary. He settles for running his fingers over the bullet scar below John's clavicle, and then ducking to run his tongue over the ridged scar tissue.

 

John's hands immediately come up to grip Sherlock's shoulders and then slide down to dig half moons into his lower back. “Trust you to be fascinated by a scar. I’d prefer your mouth elsewhere, really.”

 

“Well _I’d_ prefer that you exhibit some patience and let me have my way with you. You can’t be in charge all the time you know,” Sherlock gripes, though his tone is lacking its usual venom. He trails his tongue across to the base of John’s neck and nips lightly. He’s rather pleased John didn’t shower this morning, because the tang of sweat is more erotic than he’d anticipated. As is everything, really.

 

“Fine, but light touches are just going to tickle, so you’re aware. And your arse is just as unfairly squeezable as it looks in those tight trousers you insist on wearing.” John bucks his hips up encouragingly as he digs his fingers into each arsecheek. “Damn. Once you let me up I’m going to bite it,” he warns.

 

Sherlock shivers in anticipation. “Do. And you’re ruining my fun John, I want to discover everything about you on my own. You’re an unreliable source, I’m afraid,” Sherlock knows John is about to protest, so he drags his nails hard down alongside John’s left nipple while brushing his lips feather-light over it and circling his tongue softly in a barely-there touch.

 

“Fuck,” John pants, his grip on Sherlock tightening.

 

Sherlock smirks. “Did that tickle?”

 

“You’re going to irritatingly smug about this, aren’t you?”

 

“Probably. But there are things you might tell me you you don’t like, then discover it’s different when I try them as opposed to previous partners. Or there may be things I ask if you want, but you’re too self-conscious to say yes. I can read your body’s responses far easier than your words. If you want me to stop something do say so, but I imagine I’ll be able to read your discomfort and cease on my own.”

 

“That’s fair. And I’ve definitely imagined what it would be like to have you explore me like this, but now that we’re here I’m suddenly impatient.”

 

“I’ll make it worth the wait,” Sherlock promises as he mouths his way over to John’s other nipple. He’s wanted this for too long to rush.

 

“I don’t doubt it. You have more than today though,” John reminds him in a reassuring tone.

 

“And still with the thinking about the future. I’ll have to do better.” Sherlock tries to be methodical in his exploration, but it’s difficult when he keeps getting distracted by the enticing little noises John is making, and the way his muscles flex and the pilomotor reflexes create tiny bumps as  each hair follicle stands on end in a reflex he can’t control. There is also the distraction of his own arousal, which he doesn’t recall being quite so intense before John.

 

Sherlock, as usual, can’t remain nearly as quiet as John. Especially since he knows John likes to hear him. Though he’s quickly convinced his own reaction to a whispered, “Do that again, you’re so good,” is far more intense than John’s appreciation for his voice. He files that away for future exploration and focuses on tasting as much of John’s skin as possible.

 

John laughs when Sherlock gets to his armpits and the sensitive skin of his sides, but he allows the scrutiny and Sherlock’s stomach flutters at the show of trust. John’s eyes widen and he swears while Sherlock sucks on each of his fingers, testing for sensitivity. By the time Sherlock drags John’s trousers and pants down and off he’s practically vibrating with desire. Still, he takes his time and starts down at John’s feet and works his way up.

 

Sherlock nips his way up John’s inner thigh and buries his nose in the coarse hair covering John’s testicles, inhaling deeply before he sucks each one carefully into his mouth.

 

John’s fingers immediately tangle in Sherlock’s hair. “Fucking hell, please tell me you’re done teasing.”

 

Sherlock groans at the rough treatment, because yes, this is what he wants. John focused only on him, on how good he can be, how worthy of attention. In reply, he licks a wet trail up John’s length and laps at the corona. He hums in approval when John’s erection jumps as if determined to push its way into his mouth. He leans on one forearm so he can use his hand as well. “John, do you want me? Do you want my mouth around you?” he asks coyly, because he _knows_ but he wants to hear it.    

 

“Yes, god yes,” John urges, his voice rough as he presses Sherlock’s head down subtly.

 

Sherlock decides to start slowly as he hasn’t done this in far too long and he doesn’t want to get it wrong. Not that there likely is a wrong in John’s current state of desperation, but still. He flattens his tongue and runs it in slow circles over the glans, all the while looking up to keep his eyes locked on John, who is watching him like he’s never seen anything this incredible in his life. Sherlock feels a rush of accomplishment. “I thoroughly enjoy how you taste, the scent of your arousal and the heat of your skin against my tongue.” He seals his lips beneath the corona and swivels his neck, circling his tongue at the same time before pulling off and licking his lips. “Tell me John, tell me what you want.”

 

John’s thighs are trembling and he tries for an authoritative tone but it mostly comes out pleading. “I want- I-” He looks uncertain.

 

“John, _tell_ me. I’ll like it, I promise. There’s no need for inhibitions where I’m concerned.” He tries not to let his mild annoyance show, because while he wants John to just tell him his darkest desires, on some level he’s aware it will take a while for that level of comfort. “In case you haven’t noticed, I get off on you telling me what to do. Well, sexually at least,” he amends.

 

“I want to fuck your mouth,” John blurts out in a rush.

 

“Was that so hard?” Sherlock smirks and then slides his mouth down until he has to fight not to gag before he recalls how he’d learned to control the reflex. He decides he can take his time later, because the sound John makes needs to be repeated and the taste and feeling of John are overwhelmingly intense.

 

John’s hips buck up and his fists tighten. “Oh god, you need to tell me if this isn’t okay because I don’t want to hurt you but fuck, your mouth…”

 

Sherlock merely hums his approval and slides up a few centimeters to give John room to move, then quirks his eyebrow challengingly as he watches John’s face. He’s clearly so close to losing his control and Sherlock wants it, wants John’s surrender to his base desire, wants to prove he can take it. He sucks harder and bobs his head once more, and finally John snaps.

 

Sherlock has to break eye contact in order to angle his head down and accommodate John’s suddenly rapid undulations of his hips, and some of the extra saliva he’s producing slides down to drip into John’s pubic hair, but John doesn’t even seem to notice. For a moment it’s uncomfortable, then he remembers to relax and just let John take, and it’s perfect. It’s rough and claiming and he feels wanted and needed, and he can’t keep himself from rutting against the bed and oh, it’s too much, this combination of power and want and love. He comes before John does, but only moments, and then he’s too focused on swallowing down all of the bitter fluid to care about the mess he’s just made of the duvet.

 

Sherlock manages to climb back up John’s body before collapsing into a sated sprawl mostly on top of his addictive- what? Lover? Ack, the _sentiment_. Boyfriend? God, are they teenagers? Partner? Too vague? He nuzzles into John’s neck contentedly.

 

John’s arms immediately come around Sherlock. “You’re even better than I imagined,” he breathes, his voice shaky. “Did you…?”

 

“Mmmh, yes. Apparently the feeling of you fucking my face and rubbing myself off on the bed is enough for me to achieve orgasm. For now. I’m certain the novelty has something to do with it. Need further data. But I was good? You liked that?”

 

“You were incredible. Brilliant. Spectacular,” John praises, his voice sincere. “I guess I’ll just have to wait to return the favor.”

 

“As if you could summon the energy to move right now,” Sherlock snorts.

 

“Yeah, that’s probably true,” John admits. “Let’s not move. Let’s just stay here until I’m completely convinced this is real.” He runs his fingers over Sherlock’s skin and sighs contentedly.

 

“But you’re happy. That it’s real, I mean, which it is.”

 

“I am. You have a thing for verbal affirmations, don’t you?”

 

“Possibly…”

 

“Mary made me read this book on love languages. Hush you, it was actually interesting.” He pokes Sherlock for his derisive huff. “I’m going back to clenching my fists and not talking about stuff like this if you’re going to be an arse about it.”

 

Sherlock feels a twinge of guilt. “I’m sorry. I’m listening.”

 

“I just mean, that’s how you feel loved. Hearing me say nice things about you.”

 

“I suppose…” Sherlock considers. It does makes sense really. “Now I’m enjoying the image of you struggling through a self-help book. You didn’t manage to conveniently lose it on the tube?”

 

“I am capable of some level of emotional maturity, Sherlock.”

 

“You did it to make her happy.”

 

“Fine, yes. But there are worse reasons. Mine is quality time, according to the book. I guess it’s right. Even just sitting around on a Sunday with you in the room always made me feel... not loved exactly, because I was actively trying not to think of you in those terms, but wanted at least.”

 

“So all I have to do is spend time with you? Would you allow me to be touching you as well? If you’re in your chair just reading the paper, and Mary isn’t in the mood to sit in your lap, maybe I could...sit on the floor in front of you and just lean on your legs while I’m thinking about a case?” Sherlock wills himself not to tense up and demonstrate how nervous he is about asking for this.

 

John is silent for a few moments, and simply cards his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “As long as you drag a pillow along so I won’t worry you’re uncomfortable, and I get to play with your hair.”

 

“I accept those terms,” Sherlock says, his smile obvious in his voice. He’s unused to feeling this completely happy. It’s alternately incredible and terrifying, because having this means he’s in danger of losing it.

 

“Now about that window of pliant Sherlock…” John wriggles out from beneath Sherlock and props himself up on one elbow so he can run the fingers of his free hand over the lower scar on Sherlock’s side, and then the one a few centimeters up. “You got these at different times, judging from the levels of fading scar tissue. Tell me about this one.” He rubs his thumb over the longer, lower scar.

 

Sherlock laces his fingers with John’s before he begins, because even after recently telling Victor the stories of his years spent alone, they aren’t much less difficult to talk about. But John deserves to know. He takes a deep breath and begins, “That one was from an attempted mugging in Novosibirsk, actually. Completely unrelated to Moriarty’s web, embarrassingly enough. What happened was…”

 

For hours John points out scars and Sherlock explains how he got them between breaks for kissing and touching and reminding each other that it’s over, that they are both here and everything is going to be okay even if it wasn’t for a long time. It’s a wandering narrative, but Sherlock finds it’s actually easier to talk about that way. Possibly it’s easier for John to hear that way as well, in a series of crescendos and plateaus rather than a linear descent into Sherlock’s increasing physical and mental instability.

 

By the time Sherlock is done explaining and John is done having minor meltdowns over all the times Sherlock nearly was truly dead it’s well past dinner time, and John’s stomach begins to rumble. “Thank you for telling me all of that. I should’ve asked, but I was so busy being mad at you and then busy pretending everything was fine between us and we could still work cases and I could get married and live apart from you, and then I couldn’t ask. And you weren’t even terribly convincing at acting fine, but I wanted to believe you were and if I didn’t _know_ maybe life could just go on.”

 

“I was doing the same, John. We’re both idiots here, but I’m the bigger one, remember?” Sherlock teases, trying to lighten the mood.

 

“I’m no longer entirely convinced of that. I _am_ convinced it’s time to find some food and stretch though, before we develop bed sores.”

 

“You really should just borrow one of my dressing gowns. I’m certain Victor won’t be back until quite late, and he’ll likely just slip up to your room. Besides, I like the idea of you wandering about the flat in easily accessible clothing,” Sherlock smirks.

 

John gives a put-upon sigh, but he’s clearly fighting not to smile. “Fine. But I get to wear the blue one.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes narrow as he examines John’s attempt at a nonchalant expression. “Exactly _how long_ have you been wanting to wear it? You never wear a dressing gown, as you’ve said.”

 

John bites his lip and looks rather adorably flustered. “That doesn’t mean I didn’t wonder what it would be like to wear yours. It looks soft, and it would smell of you, and it’s...well it’s rather intimate, sharing clothing like that. Mary likes to steal my jumpers at times, but obviously she’s too small for me to borrow anything of hers.”

 

For the first time Sherlock considers the idea of swiping one of John’s shirts and wearing it himself. Maybe if it was something like an undershirt it wouldn’t be too small. “What if I were to take something from your closet every now and again. Would you like that? I think I might like that. I’ve never worn anyone else’s clothing before.”

 

“If you try putting on one of my jumpers I’m taking photos and holding them as blackmail. Your wrists would stick out the ends of the sleeves for sure,” John laughs. “But yeah, you could probably find something that would fit.”

 

“What do you think Lestrade would say if we turned up to case with you in my scarf and me in one of your ridiculous slipovers?”

 

“Hey, I like my vests! And he would probably get right on that blackmail photo as well. Though I will admit that bloody scarf plays into any number of fantasies,” John adds as he slips out of bed and pads over to Sherlock’s closet to pull out the blue dressing gown and tie it on.

 

Sherlock watches John’s arse appreciatively. “Does it now? Am I being tied up with it, or are you?” he purrs. Apparently now that his libido has been allowed free rein again, it’s determined to make up for lost time. He already wants to drag John back into bed and he hasn’t even left it yet.

 

John swallows visibly. “Mostly you. But sometimes you use it to, you know…” he makes a vague wanking motion with his hand.

 

Sherlock slips out of bed as well and prowls over to John, preening at the way John looks as if he’s considering the merits of jumping back into the bed as well. He runs his hands up the lapels of the dressing gown and pulls John in for a kiss. Or ten. “We’re making supper, and then we’re going to explore this little fetish of yours,” he declares. “Maybe I’ll even let you wear my coat at the same time. Only my coat.” The noise John makes is one Sherlock has never heard before, but oh, does he want to hear it again.

 

“That’s- fuck- you have no idea how relieved I am that you’ve secretly been a kinky bastard this entire time.”

 

Sherlock grins, inordinately thrilled at having accidentally pleased John. “Come now John, certainly you suspected that if I were to have sex, it would definitely not be boring sex.”

 

“I. Well yeah. But I didn’t think you would be this...creative, this quickly. I thought I’d be the one convincing you everything was fine, not the other way around.”

 

“I’m not about to waste time starting with the basics like it’s my first time. I’ve been waiting for this for years even if I didn’t know it and besides, we’re hardly in a new relationship.The sex is just an added bonus.”

 

John shakes his head and raises his brows in a familiar expression of, ‘ _well that was information I was not expecting_.’  “You’re a constant surprise, Sherlock.”

 

“Hmm, I’d best be. Wouldn’t want to risk you losing interest.” Sherlock reaches into the closet and slips on his maroon dressing gown. “So, should my next surprise be cooking you dinner?”

 

“Have you seriously been able to cook all this time?!” John follows Sherlock out into the kitchen. “I’ve never seen you make anything aside from toast or eggs.”

 

“Why does no one think I can feed myself? I’m a chemist, obviously I can follow a recipe! It’s a matter of convenience. I’d simply rather order take out or let Mrs. Hudson make me a meal and use my time on experiments or cases.”

 

“Huh. Okay, impress me,” John challenges as he turns a chair to face the stove and sits in it, crossing his arms and looking skeptical.

 

Sherlock decides that he will. He looks through the ingredients Victor purchased and reminds himself to thank his friend for shopping likely with just this end in mind, because there are all the ingredients for the Italian sausage and mushroom risotto Sherlock had perfected that summer. He takes his time, making sure to make his movements as fluid and seductive as possible as he chops and sautees and pauses for breaks to share white wine kisses with John, since Victor thoughtfully purchased that as well. By the time Sherlock offers John the first bite off of his own fork, John already looks like he’s ready to skip dinner and head back to bed. The sound of appreciation John makes as he tastes the food is positively orgasmic, and Sherlock gives up on trying to keep his erection covered by the misbehaving dressing gown.

 

“Oh my god that’s good,” John praises. “You can definitely cook.”

 

“When it suits me.” Sherlock slides a chair closer to John’s and sits down so their thighs can brush as they eat. “I’m glad you like it.”

 

“Don't’ tell Mary, but you’re a far better cook than she is.”

 

“I suspect I won’t need to tell her, considering that she’s likely to notice on her own if I make this more of a regular thing. I don’t want her feeling like I expect her to cook for me all the time.”

 

“That’s surprisingly thoughtful of you.”

 

“I’m thoughtful!” John gives him an _‘are you fucking kidding me_ ’ look. “Well I’m trying to be now,” he admits, knowing historically he’s rarely been what anyone would consider thoughtful.

 

“I know. And I appreciate it.”

 

“But you don’t think it will last.”

 

“I think you’ll try to make it last, but I’m not under any sort of illusions regarding your nature, Sherlock. I know you’ll get caught up in cases and forget I exist, and leave messes everywhere, and forget to pick up the milk, and say insensitive things. Just like I know I’ll storm off and not talk to you when I’m angry some days, and I’ll come home exhausted from work and snap at you when you want me to run off after some criminal. We’re still us, is all I’m saying.”

 

Sherlock wishes he could deny it, but he knows it’s true. “But we’ll be okay.”

 

“Course. We’ll irritate each other, and then we’ll get over it and we’ll have dirty make up sex.”

 

“I like that plan.”

 

“Me too.”

 

“Mary can watch. Or use the strap-on Victor is no doubt purchasing.”

 

John almost chokes on his risotto, so Sherlock counts it as a win.

 

After John has practically licked his plate clean, they wander over to the sofa for a post-dinner cuddle since they’re both too full to consider anything terribly energetic until the food settles. They talk about dishes they’d like to try making, and their first dinner at Angelo’s, and how they will have to go back again now that it really _will_ be a date, and that they should bring Mary along, and what people will suspect, and if they care. Sherlock does not care. John doesn’t want to care, but does. They decided they will talk about it more later with Mary, because right now they have more important things to do. Like strip John out of the dressing gown and get him into Sherlock’s coat, and situate him back on the sofa.

 

Sherlock drops a pillow on the floor and kneels between John’s legs and trails the ends of his navy scarf all over his body. He admires the way it makes John’s skin flush and cutis anserina appear in its wake. Sherlock can actually hear Victor’s voice in his head at that thought: _can’t you just say goosebumps like a normal person_? He smiles secretively. “I like the way you look in my coat, and that it will smell of you the next time I wear it. I like that my scarf will smell of your arousal.” He slips the scarf between John’s stomach and his erection and then pulls at the ends, watching in fascination as John’s length strains against the soft cloth.

 

John’s hands come down and make fists in the material of Sherlock’s coat as he watches. “That’s, oh god, not enough,” he pants.

 

“Hmmm...I think it will be. I think you I can get you off without touching you with my bare hands at all.” Sherlock ties the scarf on and then loops one half beneath John’s testicles before wrapping it around his erection one more time, so that his hand is only touching the scarf as he slides it up and down gently. “You look gorgeous like this. And that _is_ exactly what I’m thinking. Look at you. Look at how badly you want this, how much you love me giving it to you.” Sherlock pauses to let his dressing gown drop to the floor so John can see exactly what this is doing to him.

 

“And look how much you love me watching you. You’re a bloody show-off and I love you, you twat. Now stop torturing me.”

 

Sherlock merely makes a noncommittal noise and goes on moving his hand slowly up and down, enjoying the way Jon’s thigh muscles begin to tremble and his abdominal muscles clench enticingly. “And what will you give me if I do?” he asks teasingly.

 

John bucks his hips and tries to get more friction.“What do you want? Do you actually have some fantasy involving jam, because at this point I’d even go for that,” he growls.

 

“No jam, no.” Sherlock considers a moment because he wants _so many things_ , mostly involving John taking him hard over various surfaces, but he doesn’t want to suggest anything John hasn’t indicated he’s ready for. “Bite me. Kneel behind me while you’re getting me off with your hand and let me feel your teeth. You did say you wanted to bite my arse after all.” Now that he’s said it, that the image is in his mind, he wants it. He tightens his fist and twists his wrist, just the way John likes it.

 

“Yes, like that, fuck yes,” John praises, his voice already low and wrecked and his eyes wild as he watches the head of his cock disappear into the soft fabric.

 

“You’re thinking about it now, aren’t you? Picture it John, your chest against my back and your teeth on the nape of my neck as you stroke me. As you imagine what it will be like when you’re inside of me, fucking me while I ask you for harder, for more,” he purrs, hardly believing what he’s daring to say but loving its effect on John. “If you hadn’t already had so many orgasms today you’d be coming right now, just from this, wouldn’t you?”

 

“You’re murder on my stamina. I swear I can usually last longer than I have been but damn this is- you say things like that and I just- I’m already so close, I’m sorry,” John rambles, trembling as he tries to hold still, to draw out the experience.

 

“No, don’t be sorry. I like it. You have no idea, watching you fall apart for me, trusting me...John, you’re perfect.” Sherlock uses his free hand to hook two fingers into the cloth covering John’s testicles and slide it back a bit so he can press them against the sensitive skin just behind and rub them in firm circles.

 

John’s head falls back against the sofa and his back arches as he makes a broken sort of whine. “Don’t stop, Sherlock, god…”

 

Sherlock doesn’t. He watches John’s open mouth, his heaving chest, the light sheen of sweat, and intensifies the rhythm of his wrist. John is beautiful like this, is his like this. He feels the same sort of rush as when he’s composing on his violin, when he’s bending the notes to his will. It doesn’t take long until Sherlock decides it’s time to wrap his lips around John’s length. It wouldn’t do for his scarf to get semen on it, not when he wants to preserve the scent of John without the visible evidence so he can still wear it in public. He swallows everything, and then just as an experiment he continues sucking lightly until John pulls him away by the hair when it becomes too much.

 

John drags Sherlock up into his lap and kisses him messily, clearly still too out of it to bother with finesse. “Your turn. Bed,” he breathes against Sherlock’s lips a few minutes later.

 

Sherlock doesn’t need convincing. He takes John’s hand and practically drags him over to the bed, then climbs up into the middle and waits anxiously on all fours. When he doesn’t immediately feel the bed dip he looks back at John uncertainly. “Is this okay?”

 

“More than. Just...taking in the view for a moment,” John replies as he climbs up and runs both hands up Sherlock’s thighs to knead at the muscles of his arse. “It’s just- you’ve no idea how many times I envisioned you like this, though I was never sure if I wanted to spank you for being a little shit, or fuck you. I’m still debating, I think,” he says with a grin.

 

Sherlock feels conflicting reactions of ‘no,’ and ‘yes.’ “I don’t- I like the idea of you biting me or scratching me, but after- The idea of being slapped is-” He’s still trying to figure out a way to explain it when he finds himself suddenly pulled backwards and into John’s arms.

 

“I’m sorry. Shit, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking, and after what you just told me...that was a dick move on my part, and I’m sorry. No hitting. Not ever again,” John promises as he arranges Sherlock to sit sideways on his lap so he can kiss him apologetically.

 

Sherlock leans into John’s strength and lets out a shuddering breath of relief. “I know you didn’t mean anything by it. Though yes, I’d appreciate it if we did leave any form of striking out of our sexual repertoire.”

 

John pets Sherlock’s hair soothingly. “Of course. I won’t bring it up again, not even jokingly. I sure know how to ruin a mood, don’t I?”

 

“Nothing’s ruined, John, I assure you. I’d still like what I asked for. If you do.”

 

“I do.”

 

Sherlock runs two fingers across John’s forehead. He wants, suddenly, to hear John say that he loves him, before they continue. At the same time, he feels uncomfortable asking. Odd that he can ask for anything sexual with no qualms, but not for this.

 

“You want something. That’s your I want something look, with a bit of ‘ _why can’t you deduce it for yourself you idiot_ ’ thrown in there.”

 

“I…”

 

“You’ll ask me for sex, obviously, and you’ve never had a problem attempting to order me about. What would make you uncomfortable…” John looks at Sherlock closely, considering.

 

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.” Sherlock attempts to escape John’s arms to position himself on the bed again, but John isn’t having any of it.

 

John breaks into a knowing smile that somehow manages not to be smug. He kisses Sherlock on the forehead. “I love you.”

 

Some barely-noticed tension in Sherlock eases, and he can’t help responding with a no doubt ridiculous smile of his own.

 

John kisses Sherlock on the nose. “I love you.” On the cheek. “I love you.” On the mouth. “I still love you.”

 

Sherlock barely manages to convert a giggle to a laugh at the last second. “You’re ridiculous,” he protests, squirming, which only leads to John tickling his sides unexpectedly and shit, that was definitely very nearly a giggle. And then it is, and he can’t help it, because John tackles him to the bed and his fingers are suddenly everywhere and it tickles and he wants to hate it but he kind of loves it, and John doesn’t stop until his sides and cheeks are aching.

 

“I really wish I had a camera. I’ve never seen you this...happy. I had no idea you _could_ look this happy. Or that you were capable of making those kinds of noises,” John teases as he looks down at Sherlock in a kind of shocked wonder.  

 

“Thank goodness for small favors,” Sherlock manages, his voice still recovering from so much unaccustomed laughter. He hisses and jerks his hips up when John reaches down to stroke his still half-hard length.

 

“I’m likely to want to hear you say it rather often for a while as well,” John admits.

 

“I love you, John,” Sherlock says, and wonders how long it will take for his pulse to stop speeding up at daring to make the declaration.

 

“Good, that’s settled then. Now about that fantasy of yours…” He backs off to give Sherlock room to move.

 

Sherlock scrambles back into a crawling position, and this time John is draped over his back immediately. He ducks his head at the scrape of teeth against his nape, and whimpers at the firm hand that encourages him rapidly to full hardness again. He leans forward and fumbles under the pillow until his fingers close on the bottle of lube, and he slides it back in John’s general direction.

 

“Brilliant as always,” John praises, sitting back and pouring some into his palm. He pauses to bite Sherlock’s arse before resuming his task of creating a line of bite marks across his shoulders as he works at Sherlock’s cock in increasingly practiced motions.

 

Sherlock can’t help rocking back into John, or the incoherent noises he’s making, because everything feels so good. No, that’s not the word. Incandescent, addictive, all-consuming. The physical sensations are still so nearly-forgotten that they feel new and surprising even after how often John has touched him today. His skin feels like it’s humming with static electricity and his muscles are trembling and his skin aches and sings with the imprint of John’s teeth. When his orgasm takes him the pleasure is so white-hot he actually blacks out for a few short moments. When he can focus again he’s draped across John’s chest as soothing fingers trace the bite marks.

 

“With me then?” John asks, his voice smug.

 

“Barely. And yes, you deserve to use that tone.” It’s the most coherent praise he’s capable of offering at the moment, so he hopes it will do.

 

“I’d say so, yes. I didn’t hurt you too much though, did I?”

 

“No, it was just right.” Sherlock stretches. “We need a shower, but it sounds like too much work.”

 

“I’ll wash your hair for you,” John offers immediately.

 

“Another fantasy, John?”

 

“The idea of you all wet and slippery? That should be a fairly obvious one.”

 

“Poking fun at my lack of mental acuity at this moment is a bit unfair, considering that it’s entirely your fault,” Sherlock points out.

 

“It is, isn’t it?” John’s voice is even more smug than before. “Okay, shower before I fall asleep. I know it’s not late, but I haven’t exactly been sleeping well.”

 

“It’s fine, John. And I promise to let you sleep as late as you want. And then we’ll have sleepy morning sex.”

 

“You’re going to be insatiable, aren’t you?”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock replies simply.

 

“I don’t think I’ll mind.”

  
They take a long shower, taking their time to wash eachother’s hair and body and it’s far more intimate, more caring, than sexual. By the time they toss the duvet onto the floor and get situated beneath another John is asleep within minutes. Sherlock lies awake for another few hours, running his fingers along John’s stomach and pressing kisses into his hair and memorizing the feeling of John’s back pressed all along his front. He reflects while today was incredible, it wasn’t even close to enough. Though he suspect when it comes to John, there is no such thing.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty much more fluff and sex and talking, and Victor doing lot of facepalming...I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it! 
> 
> Continued thanks to the wonderful Hedwig-Dordt and Snogandagrope for their time spent editing and author wrangling!

 

Sherlock wakes to the feeling of being watched. When he opens his eyes it is the sight to John propped up on one elbow and looking at him with a distinctly sappy expression.

 

“You’re drooling. It’s unexpectedly adorable.”

 

Sherlock wipes at his mouth. “I am not!”

 

“Drooling or adorable?”

 

“Either. What happened to you not being a morning person?” Sherlock asks when it registers that it’s not even fully light out. “And what are you doing way over there?” He grabs John around the waist and drags him closer.

 

“You’re a bed hog, that’s what,” John accuses fondly. “And you promised morning sex.”

 

“Morning being the operative word. It’s still half night,” Sherlock mumbles into John’s neck. He’s torn between thinking it’s a good idea and wanting to cuddle John back to sleep for another hour, since his internal clock is telling him he’s only slept possibly four.

 

“We can take a nap later. I want you now,” John whispers into Sherlock’s ear before nibbling at it.

 

Sherlock shivers. Well, maybe it’s not _that_ early. “Hmm, fine, but you’re doing all the work,” he says as he fumbles beneath the pillow for the bottle of lube. He presses it into John’s hand and turns over onto his stomach suggestively. He’s not actually sure what John wants, but he wants it clear he’s offering anything. “My version of morning sex is lazy sex,” he rumbles, looking back at John’s conflicted expression.

 

“I don’t actually- I mean it’s not that I don’t-”

 

Well, that’s that answered. “You realize penetration isn’t the only option from this angle, John. You can just straddle my thighs and rub off between my arse cheeks and get used to the idea of more. If you want.”

 

“If I want. Of _course_ I want. I want so much it’s hard to pick one thing, but yeah, that sounds good. If it’s not just- I don’t know- a tease?”

 

“John, I will never find my participating in something that brings you pleasure a tease. Besides, I’ll enjoy you holding me down,” Sherlock purrs suggestively.

 

John’s breath catches and he licks his lips. “I’m holding you down in this scenario? You’re definitely more subby than I imagined.” He moves to straddle Sherlock’s thighs and drags his nails lightly down the long expanse of skin.

 

Sherlock arches into the alluring sensation. “You like it.”

 

“I do,” John admits as he pours lube into his palm and considers for a moment before rubbing it into the crease of Sherlock’s arse. “Fuck but that’s hotter than I expected,” he murmurs. “Just so you know, I _do_ want to slide my fingers and cock inside of you, but I feel like there ought to be some sort of progression here. After all, I haven’t even sucked you off. I’d like to next though, so be good and don’t touch yourself.”

 

“I won’t,” Sherlock promises, pressing his hips back invitingly. “Now come on, I want to feel you.” He lifts his arms above his head and grips his left wrist tight.

 

“You’ve no idea how hot you look like this,” John praises as he leans forward to grip Sherlock’s biceps, effectively holding him down against the sheets. It takes a few moments for him to adjust his position so that he can undulate his hips and press down into the slick warmth, but before long he starts a slow rhythm that has him breathing hard and swearing beneath his breath.

 

Sherlock does his best to rock his hips back in time with John’s thrusts, but it’s difficult, especially when John keeps changing up his pace seemingly just to tease him. It’s unpredictable. Wonderful. He doesn’t have to worry about anything other than keeping up a running litany of how good it is, how much he wants this. Despite his position he feels powerful and necessary and cared for all at the same time. He’s actually disappointed when warmth finally splatters across his spine.

 

John collapses next to Sherlock with a groan. “I fucking love you,” he pants.

 

“Enough to be the one to get a flannel?” Sherlock ducks John’s playful swat.

 

“You weren’t kidding about the lazy part.” John scoots closer to kiss Sherlock, apparently unconcerned about morning breath.

 

“I doubt you’re surprised.”

 

“Not when one of the first things you asked me to do was cross the city to hand you your mobile phone,” John replies with a grin before slipping out of bed to get a wet cloth.

 

“I simply asked. You’re the one who came running,” Sherlock points out once John begins wiping him clean.

 

 _“If inconvenient come anyway_ , I believe you said. I hardly call that asking, you colossal arse.”

 

“Semantics,” Sherlock says airily.

 

“You’re so damn lucky I love you,” John huffs dramatically. “Now turn over so I can find out what it feels like to be on the other end of a blowjob.”

 

Sherlock obeys immediately. “If you don’t like it that’s fine,” he says, though he definitely hopes John decides he enjoys it. He scoots back and piles up a few pillows so he can lean against the headboard and spread his legs to give John room.

 

“Anxious then?” John asks, his expression a complicated combination of nerves and desire.

 

“I’ve not had someone’s mouth on me for over a decade. Anxious isn’t nearly a strong enough term. If you’re worried you’ll be bad it, stop. There’s no way I won’t enjoy this,” Sherlock promises.

 

“You think I’m going to be bad at it?” John sounds genuinely wounded.

 

“No! You’re going to be amazing. Brilliant.” Sherlock mentally smacks himself.

 

John cracks a smile. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it. It’s just so new, being able to mess with you.”

 

“I’m out of practice at being able to read when you’re lying is all,” Sherlock protests.

 

“Or maybe you’re just...distracted,” John suggests as he settles between Sherlock’s legs. He rests his weight on his elbows and nips at the sensitive skin of Sherlock’s inner thigh.

 

Sherlock gasps and moves his hands to rest on John’s shoulders because he doesn’t want to seem too pushy and go for his hair, but he has to touch. “In all fairness, you’re very distracting when you’re naked.”

 

“Hmm, so are you,” John rumbles as he wraps his right hand around the base of Sherlock’s cock to guide it down to his lips. He slips the still-slick fingers of his left hand down to rub lightly between Sherlock’s arse cheeks teasingly.

 

“John, yes, that, please,” Sherlock breathes, hoping John knows what he means because he can barely form coherent words. All of his focus is on the sight of John’s tongue tarting out to lap at the slick head of his erection before his lips wrap around it to suck gently for a few seconds. He’s not going to last three minutes, because it’s already impossibly good.  

 

John licks his lips and rolls the taste around in his mouth for a moment. “You don’t taste anything like a woman, but I think I like it.” He slides his hand up so Sherlock’s foreskin gathers at the top, then slides his tongue inside and swirls it around before pulling bit of the loose skin between his lips and tugging gently. He lets go and grins up at Sherlock. “I’m rather jealous you still have yours, I think. It’s fun to play with.”

 

“Consider this blanket permission to play with mine all you want. You’re not nervous at all, are you?” Sherlock asks in wonder. He was expecting some sort of hesitation, some mild discomfort with the idea of having an erect penis in his mouth, but John merely seems...excited.

 

“Nope. I got all my nerves out during numerous fantasies. Now stop asking questions and let me enjoy this,” John admonishes with a wink.

 

“You’re a marvel, John Watson.” Sherlock runs his fingers through John’s hair once, then moves his hands back where they were. “Next time I’ll suck you off as well so we can both enjoy it equally,” he suggests.

 

“Oh, fuck yes,” John agrees before ducking his head to see how far down he can slide his mouth before his gag reflex kicks in.

 

Sherlock thought, during his time with Victor, that he’d learned all there was to know about sex. He was so very, very wrong, because _nothing_ has ever felt like this. He’s aware that technically John isn’t terribly good at this yet, but that doesn’t seem to matter. _Wrecked_ , he thinks. He’s never truly understood that term being used in a sexual sense, but he does now. He’s sweating and trembling and he can’t control the desperate movements of his hips, the sounds John is tearing from his throat. He doesn’t want, he needs. Needs John’s mouth, needs John’s fingers inside of him. He presses back against the teasing fingers and whimpers, silently begging until he feels crazy with it and he tries begging out loud.

 

“John, you said you wanted to, just do it. I want to feel your fingers inside of me. Please, John. I’m so close, I want to orgasm around your fingers, in your mouth-” One of John’s fingers finally presses inside and Sherlock’s head hits the headboard hard. “More, so good, more John…”

 

John’s motions become erratic as he presses a second finger inside and he makes a pleased sort of noise in the back of his throat without pausing the twisting, tongue-swirling motion he’s settled on. His lips are obscenely saliva-slicked and his pupils are blown wide as he looks up at Sherlock with a smug expression before crooking his fingers just so.

 

Sherlock’s orgasm burns through his senses like a supernova. His mental processes white-out and there is nothing but razor-sharp pleasure so acute it’s nearly pain. He floats, feeling buzzed but safe and protected and oh, that’s probably because he’s somehow lying across John’s chest being held close and when did that happen?

 

“You okay there?” John asks, his voice a mix of smug satisfaction and adoration.

 

Sherlock snuggles in closer. “Very. I’ve determined that everything is better with you.” He nuzzles into John’s neck and kisses it.

 

“That’s good, since I’m all you’re going to get from now on,” John says with a distinctly possessive tone. “Well, and possibly Mary, I suppose.”

 

“Possibly. If she gets that strap-on. I’ve no real desire to penetrate your wife.”

 

“This is the weirdest post-sex conversation I’ve ever had. That’s not a statement I ever expected to hear you say, that’s for sure.”

 

“You may as well get used to it, you know how I get. I’ll probably get an inspiration on a case directly afterwards and begin asking you about the rate of decay on a drowning victim before our sweat has had time to cool.”

 

“That’s...yeah, I can see that happening, actually. So you don’t want to have sex with Mary? But you’re okay if I do?”

 

“Of course. I won’t mind watching, or touching, or kissing both of you, and I admit I’m rather curious about the female orgasm. I’d like to experiment with using my fingers or my mouth on her, but I’m not actually sexually attracted to her. It’s more of an attraction to everything else about her. Her mind, her nature.”

 

“Just to clarify. You don’t want her sexually, but you want to go down on her?”

 

“I’m not repelled by women, John. I just don’t generally understand them. But I think she wouldn’t mind it, and you’d like helping me pleasure her, wouldn’t you? I highly doubt she and I would ever do anything sexual without you there, whereas clearly I have no issue being sexual with you when she’s not around. Obviously we’ll have different dynamics, and she seems to accept that already.”

 

“That’s a fair point. I’ve just never thought about anything like this. I guess I never expected to be in love with two people at the same time. Especially two people who are okay being in an unconventional relationship like we’re proposing.”

 

“Unconventional doesn’t mean bad, or wrong, or immoral, you realize,” Sherlock points out as he runs his fingers over John’s stomach soothingly.

 

“I know that, and you know that, but that doesn’t mean most of the world will be accepting of the idea. Fuck ‘em, I guess,” John says with only a slightly less than convincing tone.

 

“We’ll be fine, John. We’ll figure out a way to make it work. We’ll be happy. Our happiness is more important than what some closed-minded idiots may think, isn’t it?”

 

“I know, it is. I know that. But it still makes me uncomfortable, the idea of people knowing. Of them judging. I want not to care, and you’re worth it, don’t get me wrong, I just...it might be harder for me to walk down the street holding both of your hands than it will be for you. I don’t want to hide you, or pretend you don’t mean what you mean to me, but…”

 

“I’m not asking you to show me off in public, John. I’m not much for public displays of affection. All I ask is if I do touch your hand, or look at you like you’re the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen, you don’t act like it disgusts you.”

 

“I would never do that. I’m just saying...this is a lot for me to adjust to and it’s going to take me some time to wrap my head around all of the new dynamics.”

 

“That’s fair.” Sherlock smiles when John’s stomach rumbles. “So, time for breakfast?”

 

“Are you offering to cook it? I really feel like you should prove last night wasn’t a fluke and you didn’t just memorize one good recipe to impress a guy someday,” John teases.

 

“I’m going to regret revealing my secret culinary expertise, aren’t I?” Sherlock groans as he gets up and pads over to his dresser to pull on a pair of soft pajama bottoms.

 

“Possibly, but it’s too late now,” John smirks. He follows Sherlock and grabs a pair of navy cotton pajama bottoms out of the drawer. “I don’t have anything good for lazing about all day in, and these always looked ridiculously comfortable.” He laughs when the too-long bottoms pool around his feet.

 

“We may need to buy you some in your size,” Sherlock points out, though actually he thinks John looks adorable. He foregoes the dressing gown since he suspects John will enjoy watching him cook shirtless, even though John pulls one back on himself.

 

They take turns using the washroom, and then John makes tea while Sherlock makes ham and cheese omelettes. They’re just sitting down at the table when Victor breezes in.

 

“Good morning boys! Have a good night? I didn’t need to use the complimentary ear plugs I got on the plane, but you do both have that well-shagged look about you so I’m guessing it was a good night despite the lack of banging noises.” He goes over to the icebox and pulls out a few eggs for himself. “You didn’t make any for me, Sherlock? He’s an excellent cook when it suits him,” he says to John as he begins cracking eggs into the pan on the stove.

 

Sherlock rests his left hand on the back of John’s neck and rubs his thumb in circles as he replies. “I wasn’t sure when you’d be up. How was your night out with Lestrade?”

 

“Never made it out with him, we’re scheduled for tonight instead. A few of Molly’s co-workers invited me out for drinks with them after work, and one thing led to another. Two tequila shots and that Molly turns into a passable go-go dancer.” Victor grins as he places a few slices of bread into the toaster.

 

John raises his brows. “I’m sorry, what? You went out to a dance club with Molly? _Our_ Molly?”

 

“Several in fact,” Victor nods. “She’s a lot of fun. I took the group of them shopping for new dresses, and from there it was easy to convince them they needed to show them off at a few of the more trendy clubs. Apparently money lets one skip the lines just as easily here as New York. I suspect the limo I rented at the last minute helped as well.”

 

“You bought them dresses and rented a limo? What exactly do you do for a living?” John asks incredulously.

 

“He’s in stocks,” Sherlock says dismissively. “Don’t look so impressed, his head is big enough already without that.”

 

“This coming from the vainest man I know,” Victor scoffs. “Tell me John, does he still turn his collar up to look cool and insist on wearing tailored suits everywhere? Oh, and does he twirl his hair around his fingers as it dries so the curls are more even?”

 

“Yes, yes, and yes, actually. I thought that last one was a kind of unconscious habit though.”

 

“Ha! Maybe it is now, but he started doing that in university after his lab partner told him it’s how she got her curls to lay just right, and she’d noticed his were rather unruly but had the potential to be amazing. If I recall that was on day one when she was still trying to flirt with him. Sadly he was his usual charming self so she set his notes on fire with a bunsen burner within the week, but apparently that bit of advice stuck.”

 

John looks over at Sherlock. “Oh my god, he’s telling the truth. That’s priceless!”

 

Sherlock glares at Victor. “You’re a horrible person. Don’t you have anywhere you need to be? I’ve changed my mind. You two shouldn’t become friends.”

 

Victor simply smiles angelically as he stirs his eggs. “I’m perfectly happy right where I am, thank you very much. And John and I are destined to be best mates I’m afraid. He’s going to need someone to bitch to about your general... _youness_. Now that you’re lovers and not just friends, he’s going to take your silences and thoughtless comments far more personally. And he can’t always use Mary, because she might feel stuck in the middle or feel like she’s being asked to take sides and that’s just asking for trouble.” John and Sherlock both stare at him as if this is something they’ve never considered, and Victor groans. “Tell me you two idiots did more than just have sex.”

 

“We’ve only been this,” Sherlock waves vaguely between himself and John, “for twenty-four hours! We’ve _been_ talking, but of course we haven’t had time to discuss everything you think people in a polyamorous relationship need to discuss!”

 

“And besides, we’ve know each other for years. We’ve _lived_ together for years. It’s not like we’re complete strangers you know, so we don’t need to talk about everything like we’ve just started dating,” John adds defensively.

 

Victor dumps his eggs onto a plate and then throws his hands up in a dramatic show of despair. “You are practically complete strangers again! You both just went through a rough few years and you’re not the same people you were before Sherlock vanished, as much as you’d like to be. From what I’ve been able to gather, the biggest problem is that you two tried to throw yourselves right back into the exact same relationship you had before and I’m sorry, but that’s not possible. You need to treat this like a completely new relationship with a complete stranger, or it’s going to be a mess.”

 

“That’s not- I still _know_ him, Victor!” Sherlock protests, mostly because he wants it to be true. And he does, but at the same time he can’t deny that things have been different between them ever since he got back.

 

“Really?” Victor sits down across from them and gives Sherlock a challenging look. “What did he do to celebrate his last birthday? What’s the last movie he enjoyed? What is he afraid of right now, and why, and how does it affect his daily life? What are his hopes? Why did you put salt on his omelette when he clearly wanted pepper?”

 

John freezes in the act of reaching for the pepper shaker.

 

“But you don’t like pepper on your eggs,” Sherlock states in confusion.

 

John shrugs. “I do now. Mary got me started on it, and now I like it better this way.” He purses his lips thoughtfully. “Shit, he may have a point.”

 

Sherlock’s tone comes out as far more upset than he’d hoped. “Well I told him about what happened while I was gone, surely that counts for something! I’m- I’m trying here Victor, give me some credit at least.” He stabs at his eggs and stares down at his plate in irritation.

 

Victor’s expression softens. “Hey, look at me. _Liam_.” Sherlock looks up at that. “I’m sorry, I know you’re new to romantic relationships and it’s good- very good- that you told him. But that’s a cause, not an effect, and it will take time for John to discover how it’s changed you. And the same goes for you with him.”

 

John looks between the two of them with an uncertain expression. “Okay that’s another good point, but I’m stuck on Liam.”

 

Victor groans. “That’s his name! You know what, I rest my case.”

 

Sherlock feels pinned by two accusing stares. “Right. John. There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. It just never came up in conversation, you see…and ah...well, my name _is_ Sherlock, it’s just that it’s not my _only_ name...”

 

“You have got to be kidding me right now,” John growls in exasperation. “Years! Years you hounded me about finding out my middle name and you couldn’t be arsed to tell me yours?”

 

Sherlock cringes. “Technically I did. My whole name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

 

“Well I have to admit Liam beats Sherl as far as pet names go. But you could’ve _told_ me. Christ, that’s the both of you I’ve shagged without knowing your real names!” John pokes Sherlock in the arm with his fork. “You’re so goddamned lucky I love you. Any other little tidbits you’d like to share? Are you also secretly a spy or something?”

 

“You’re actually hurt, aren’t you?” Sherlock asks, studying John’s face carefully.

 

“A bit, yeah. It’s just- we were meant to be best friends, and now I’m learning I never really knew you as well as I thought I did.”

 

Victor taps his fork against his mug, drawing attention back to himself. “I’d like to propose a toast to the thrill of a new beginning. Not many people get the chance you two have. You get to start over and get it right this time.” He raises his mug and holds it out expectantly until John and Sherlock tap clink theirs against it. “I think it would be best if you can just agree to focus on the present and future and not hold grudges for sins of the past. As much as possible, at least.”

 

John takes a sip of his tea and looks at Victor consideringly. “I’d rather planned on disliking you, but you’re irritatingly difficult to dislike.”

 

Victor grins. “I know, right? Though I hear you liked this one from the start, so possibly there’s a defect in your wiring,” he adds with a wink in Sherlock’s direction.

 

Sherlock huffs. “There’s nothing wrong with John. He simply has impeccable taste in friends.”

 

“No argument here. Greg and Molly are lovely. I suspect I’ll have Greg convinced to finally ask her out by the end of our night out at the pubs, so you should probably work on another piece to play at their wedding, Sherlock.”

 

“He’s been into her for ages, yeah,” John nods. “He was definitely jealous of her date at the wedding, but last I heard she’d called it off with that guy pretty soon after.”

 

“Oh, that’s over, yeah. Apparently he wasn’t any good in bed on top of being rather boring,” Victor replies. “I don’t think Greg is at all boring, and while I’m not certain he’s good in bed I _can_ say he’s probably much better to look at naked than that ex of hers.” He makes a low catcall.

 

John closes his eyes tight. “Okay, no. I did not need that mental image. I think it’s safe to say I’m still just Sherlocksexual because that is doing absolutely nothing for me.”

 

Sherlock preens. “I definitely prefer you to Lestrade as well,” he says as he leans over to kiss John on the cheek.

 

“Course you do,” Victor smirks. “You’ve got a soldier kink that’s visible from the next galaxy over. Trust you to have the luck to end up with one.”

 

Sherlock wills himself not to blush. “That’s not why- I didn’t ask him to move in with me because of _that_.”

 

“Couldn't have hurt though,” Victor points out. “Tell me John, how long did it take him to bring up your military service?”

 

John grins at Sherlock’s slight flush. “Actually, the first thing he asked me was, ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’”

 

Victor laughs. “I knew it! You were hot for him before he said one word, weren’t you? I’ll bet you took one look at that military bearing, that hint of tightly wound control, and wanted to drop to your knees right there,” he teases, shoving at Sherlock’s knee with his foot beneath the table.

 

“For a moment, yes,” Sherlock admits, meeting John’s suddenly intense gaze. “Not that I would have, not then.” The unspoken _now though, now I would_ , hangs between them.

 

“Damn. You two have some serious chemistry,” Victor observes. “Do feel free to shag on the table, won’t bother me a bit.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I’m sure it wouldn’t, but Mary is the only one I’ll be sharing any part of this with. Turns out I’m rather possessive,” he states as he slides his hand onto John’s thigh.

 

Victor looks as if he’s trying to keep a straight face. “In other news, the Earth goes ‘round the sun.”

 

Sherlock frowns. “I hate you. You even admitted the solar system was an understandable thing to delete!”

 

John bumps his shoulder against Sherlock’s good-naturedly. “I think he’s trying to be clever about saying there are a some things that everyone else knows but you are completely oblivious to.”

 

“See, _John_ gets my intelligent sense of humor. You just wait until I get him out alone for drinks sometime. I imagine we’ll have great fun.” Victor winks at John playfully.

 

“Oh no! Drag Molly and Lestrade out all you want, but John stays with me.”

 

John gives Sherlock an unimpressed look.

 

“Well. For this trip at least,” Sherlock amends.

 

“For this trip. But you don’t get to tell me who I can spend time with, Sherlock,” John says firmly. “There’s a fine line between "possessive" and "jealous arsehole" and you’d best not cross it. I would never try to control your life. Clearly. When did I ever tell you if you were allowed to go running about the city at all hours, doing lord knows what with lord knows who?”

 

Sherlock cringes. Apparently he’s going to have to get used to feeling bad about things he says. It’s an unfamiliar feeling to say the least. “I apologize, John. It’s safe to assume I’m going to get this relationship thing wrong more often than I get it right.”

 

John leans over to kiss Sherlock. “I know. And as long as we both try to be understanding, I’m sure we’ll be fine. It’s a new relationship, like Victor says. When relationships are in the early stages, it’s normal to push each other's buttons by mistake since we don’t know what all of them are yet.”

 

“Well this is complicated and  I’m never doing it again so you’re stuck with me,” Sherlock declares. “Whatever possessed you to begin _dozens_ of relationships?” He shudders at the very thought.

 

“Hope, I suppose,” John says with a shrug. “And some of us actually enjoy getting to know someone new.”

 

“I can’t possibly imagine why,” Sherlock huffs.

 

“Which is probably why it took me years to really get to know you, and I still never knew your actual name. You’re not big on sharing.”

 

“Well neither are you!” Sherlock protests. “And what are you snickering about?” he snaps at Victor.

 

“Nothing. You two. You’re so perfect for each other it’s disgusting,” Victor says as he gets up to retrieve his toast and butter it. “Now eat your omelettes before they’re completely cold. I imagine you’ll need the energy,” he adds with a smirk. “After breakfast I’ll show you my presents, and then you can run and play.”

 

John nearly chokes on his eggs.

 

After breakfast Victor sits Sherlock and John down on the sofa so he can lay his purchases out on the coffee table one by one as he expounds upon their virtues. John looks mildly disturbed, slightly embarrassed, and interested, all at once. Sherlock is merely intrigued. The purchases include: One purple silicone vibrator, a few lengths of soft rope, leather handcuffs, vanilla flavored massage oil, a black strap-on harness and dildo of an unintimidating size, nipple clamps, a cock ring, and lastly an ornate fork.

 

“I understand the rest of it, but a fork?” John asks, looking at it as if trying to discover what makes it special.

 

“I’ll just let Sherlock explain that one to you himself. Well it’s been fun, but I promised Martha I’d take her for one of those touristy carriage rides and then to a museum and lunch. She says you two never offer to take her anywhere, even after all she puts up with from you.” He tutts and shakes his finger at them. “Enjoy yourselves and I’ll catch you later!” He winks and breezes back out the door.

 

John sits back and stares at the assortment on the table. “So this is all very...intimidating.”

 

“Try shifting your view to using all of this on me, rather than me using anything on you,” Sherlock suggests, watching John closely. He feels a little thrill of accomplishment when John’s expression turns far more predatory than nervous.

 

“That helps, yeah,” John admits with an endearingly crooked smile. “Not that I wouldn’t like you to- It’s just-”

 

“It’s fine, John. It’s all fine,” he says, knowing John will recognize the line. “I’d like you to try out any of these on me- Victor knows my preferences, so he didn’t buy anything that would make me uncomfortable. So if I’d enjoy it, and you’d enjoy it, that’s all that matters. I don’t think there’s any reason we always need to switch off as it were, is there?”

 

John bites his lip and considers a moment before replying. “I know it’s a bad idea to keep score like that, yeah. And I think I will end up wanting you to use a lot of these on me, it might take me a while to get used to the idea is all.”

 

“Like I said, it’s fine. If you want to pick something to try out we can, or we can just sit here you can have your turn to fill me in on what happened to you during the years I was gone. And then you can pick something to try out,” Sherlock adds in a hopeful tone.

 

“I’m sure that can be arranged. Why don’t we start with this,” John says as he picks up the fork and presses his fingers curiously against the tines.

 

“I’ll tell you once you’re done telling me about everything I should’ve asked about already,” Sherlock promises, arranging them so John is snuggled up against him comfortably.

 

John takes a deep breath, tucks his head under Sherlock’s neck, and then begins.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks as always to the lovely Hedwig-Dordt for her beta and cheer leading help! I think there are about five chapters to go- thank you for following! Enjoy some more fluff and smut with bonus drunken Victor and Greg : )

 

This time it’s John’s turn to talk for hours. He tells Sherlock how he moved out of 221b as soon as possible since he couldn’t bear how empty it felt, how much it reminded him of what he’d lost. How he stopped talking to Mrs. Hudson, and rarely saw Lestrade or Molly, because he didn’t want to find out what it was like to be around them without Sherlock as that would make the loss real somehow. How he’d started working overtime at the clinic, just to have something to occupy his time. About Mary, the cute nurse who started working at the clinic a month after the funeral. How she was funny, and sarcastic, and sharp-witted, and didn’t flinch at even the most gruesome of wounds and remained completely calm in emergency situations.

 

John explains how after a month of flirting she had simply walked up to him after work and informed him she was taking him out for dinner and if he was lucky she’d take him back to her place for drinks after. How he’d somehow spent most of the evening explaining why he always seemed so sad when he thought no one was looking, and she hadn’t kicked him out of her flat for the way their first date ended in them falling asleep with their clothes on, curled up onto her sofa.

 

He tells Sherlock about his anger at himself for not being a better friend, for not finding a way to stop him from jumping. How he had nightmares for months, jumbled images of bombs going off and all of the death he saw in Afghanistan mingled with images of Sherlock falling, always falling, and John never being able to save him.

 

He talks about how difficult it was to go back to a ‘normal’ life. How he’d read the papers and try to sort out what Sherlock would do about the reported crimes. How he’d wander the streets late at night, in the more dangerous areas of town, hoping for a fight or anything interesting to break the monotony. How even though Mary made life better, and they moved in together rather quickly so it helped not being alone so much, it still felt- at times- like he was looking at the world through a pane of glass. How this wasn’t supposed to be his life.

 

And then, suddenly, Sherlock was back. And John was so thrilled, and angry, and confused, and torn between two worlds. There was his new life with Mary, and the lure of his old life with  Sherlock, and the logical fact that he couldn’t have both. Not really. Not like he wanted. And suddenly all of that buried desire for Sherlock came flooding back but he was getting _married_ and he loved Mary, but he loved Sherlock as well, and if he seemed a bit testy leading up to the wedding that was the reason. Then Mary shot Sherlock, but they both seem somehow fine with that. And now Sherlock is cuddled up with him on the sofa in front of an array of sex toys and John is thrilled, but at the same time it’s an awful lot to take in awfully quickly.

 

Sherlock mostly just listens and periodically adjusts their positions on the sofa for comfort, and runs his hands over John soothingly. He listens carefully, filing away details and questions and feeling increasingly like an insensitive fool for not understanding John nearly as well as he’d thought. He holds John close and thanks all the gods and powers he doesn’t believe in that John is here, despite everything Sherlock has put him through.

 

“John...there’s nothing I can say to fix those years for you. I feel like apologizing isn’t nearly enough. All I can say is thank you for telling me so that I understand how lucky I am you’re still here. And why you felt perfectly justified in reacting as you did to my rather insensitive return,” he says sincerely once John is finished.

 

“I didn’t tell you all of that to make you feel _guilty,_ I just...wanted you to know what you missed. And _of course_ I’m still here. Life is shittier without you. That was the whole moral of my story, idiot.” John shifts so he can kiss Sherlock fondly.

 

“I think it was the moral of mine as well,” Sherlock points out when they finally separate long enough for him to speak. “So that’s settled, apparently. Now we just need Mary’s whole story. Or did you read whatever was on that memory stick she gave you?”

 

“No, I didn’t. I thought about it. I got as far as putting it into my computer, but I couldn’t bring myself to open the files. Even when I was pissed as hell at her, it felt like too much of an invasion of privacy. Even though she offered it. I have it with me though. Do you want to read it?”

 

“Of course I _want_ to read it. I’m naturally curious. I’m not going to though, because something tells me that would be more than a bit not good if she’s coming here tomorrow and can tell us herself.”

 

“If we believe her,” John says hesitantly, as if it pains him.

 

“I suspect we need to decide right now that we do, John. We need to trust her, which I realize is asking a lot of you right now and sounds a bit ridiculous coming from me, but there you are. Yes she’s lied to you, but only because she wanted to make you happy. To be good for you. I can sympathize,” he adds sincerely, because it’s true. He understands her trying to keep her past from John, and then offering it up too late in an attempt to make things right, even if she’s afraid it’s not going to work.

 

“I want to trust her. To trust both of you. She’s my wife, and you’re my ah…” John squints his eyes a bit and cocks his head thoughtfully. “boyfriend? God no, that makes you sound like a bit on the side now that I’m married. Best friend doesn’t cover it. Partner? Sounds a bit distant, doesn’t it? Lover? Too romance novel?”

 

“Do we need a word? It’s not as if you’re going to refer to me as anything other than Sherlock.” Though he’s been wondering the same thing, and it bothers him that he cares.

 

“I dunno, I was thinking about adopting Sherl,” John teases.

 

“I will stab you with that fork,” Sherlock warns.

 

“Yeah, that one’s pretty awful. Maybe we’re not big on pet names, I really can’t envision you calling me anything other than John. And fine, maybe we don’t _need_ an official term between us, but what if I want one? Or if not a term, a...something. Like Mary and I have rings.”

 

Sherlock blinks at John in surprise. “You want to give me a ring?”

 

“Not necessarily. I just want you to know you’re as important to me as Mary is. That I don’t see you as just the extra person in the relationship. I want something so you know you’re- okay this is going to come out wrong- so you know you’re mine. Ours.” John wraps a hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck possessively.

 

Sherlock feels a knot of anxiety he hadn’t quite known existed ease within him. “I think that came out just right, actually. I rather like being yours. As long as you’re mine as well, that is.”

 

“Obviously. Since day one, really,” John admits. “Well, we’ll think of something. Aaaaand I think that’s my quota of sentimentality for the morning.” He clears his throat and sits up a bit. “So, about that fork…”

 

“Ah, yes. Why don’t you grab that, and anything else you’re in the mood to try, and I’ll explain in the bedroom.” Sherlock stands, his stomach fluttering in an increasingly familiar sensation of anticipation as he watches John pick up the fork and then lick his lips as he decides what else he wants to bring along.

 

“Let’s just start with something simple for now,” John decides as he picks up the massage oil and vibrator. “Did it honestly _have_ to be purple? And is that glitter?” He holds the vibrator up to the light and inspects it closely.

 

“Trust me John, I’m not going to be thinking about the color,” Sherlock purrs as he attempts to pull John in the direction of the bedroom.

 

“Hold up. I’m not letting this anywhere near you until I’m sure it’s properly clean,” John counters as he heads for the kitchen and presumably the antibacterial soap.

 

“Fine,” Sherlock huffs. “I’ll just wait for you on the bed.” Trust John to be practical when all he wants is to know what exactly John plans to do with the admittedly ridiculous sparkly replica of an erection. He strips off quickly and climbs onto the bed, considering how he’d like to present himself. He settles on kneeling back on his heels in the center of the bed and stroking himself teasingly. He’s almost fully hard when John comes striding in.

 

John pauses for a few moments just inside the door. “Damn...I’m sure you know exactly how good you look, but this is me saying I agree. Now that I can.”

 

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Sherlock purrs with a teasing smile, though he’s genuinely thrilled to have pleased John.

 

“I’ll remember that,” John says as he slips out of his own few items of clothing. He climbs up onto the bed and kneels up behind Sherlock, setting the oil and vibrator down. He slides his hands down to grip Sherlock's hips and nibble at his ear for a few moments. “So I can figure out what to do with the other things, but this…?” He holds the fork out questioningly.

 

Sherlock covers John’s hand with his own and guides it down until the tines are pressing into the skin above his left knee. He sucks in a hissing breath as he helps drag it up hard enough that pink lines trail all the way up to his hip bone. He shivers and leans back into John’s chest, a delicious spark of adrenaline already thrumming through him. “Hard enough to leave marks, but not hard enough to draw blood,” he requests in a low voice as he takes his hand away and brings it automatically back to his erection.

 

“No. Hands behind your back and no touching unless I say you can,” John orders in a tone that demands obedience.

 

Sherlock does it immediately, though he can’t help reaching back with his fingers to brush against John’s length because he feels like he has to do _something._

 

“Ah ah ah,” John chides, moving back out of reach. “Not yet. Right now I want to figure out what drives you crazy, and I don’t want you distracting me.” He bites the junction of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder as he watches pink lines appear all along the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. “That’s good, let me hear you,” he praises at the choked whine the marks elicit.

 

Sherlock struggles to find words. “I already can’t think clearly it’s so good,” he finally manages. “More please.” He tilts his head back to lean it on John’s shoulder and lets his eyes drift closed so he can focus on the feeling of his skin coming alive, of being the center of John’s focus.

 

“You’re so perfect like this,” John breathes as he drags the fork up the ridges of Sherlock’s ribcage. “So responsive. I like this. I had no idea I’d like this so much,” he marvels as he leaves pink trails along Sherlock’s other thigh. “I’m not hurting you too badly am I?”

 

“No, it’s incredible. Keep going.” Sherlock shivers and tries to press his muscles more firmly upwards into the delicious sting. He has to clamp a hand around his wrist to keep from reaching for his erection because he _wants_ , but the wanting is almost as good as touching would be. John is so very, very good at this and the fact that he’s willing to leave marks is an incredible turn on in itself. Then John urges him down so his chest is resting on the bed and his arms are stretched above his head and he stops thinking about anything but the pleasure.

 

John pours some of the massage oil into his palms and spreads it over Sherlock’s back and then leans down to blow on it, since the bottle says it warms that way. He grins when Sherlock whimpers and arches his back. “It works then. Tell me if this is too much.” He drags the fork down along the ridiculously long spine spread out beneath him and then blows on the faint welts.

 

Sherlock swears and tries to rut against the bed, but it’s difficult since his knees are still tucked beneath him and he can’t get nearly enough friction. The added sensation of heat against the mild sting is incredible. “Do that again,” he pants. John does, and then again, creating some sort of geometric pattern across his back between murmured praise and it’s not enough and nearly too much all at the same time. Especially when John rubs the oil between the crack of his arse. Sherlock is so out of it that he yelps and jumps away at the sudden press of cool silicone and pulsing vibration behind his testicles.

 

“Sorry! Should’ve warned you, sorry,” John apologizes, soothing a hand down Sherlock’s back. “Should I wait for later? I just know I like it when Mary uses hers on me like this.”

 

It takes a moment for the words to register. “You let Mary use a vibrator on you?” Sherlock looks back at John in surprise, though he’s suddenly not sure why. Clearly John hasn’t spent his life partaking in purely vanilla sex considering how well he’s taking all of this.

 

John shrugs as if it’s not a big deal. “Yeah, she thinks it’s hot. I’ve had a few girlfriends use them on me. Only on the outside, but yeah.”

 

“Well don’t stop now, I just wasn’t prepared. You can do whatever you want with it,” Sherlock assures, because the idea of John sliding it inside of him is definitely appealing. Not as appealing as the thought of John himself, but it definitely has merit.

 

John flicks the vibrator back onto a low setting and rubs the head gently down from Sherlock’s tailbone all the way until it’s pressed lightly against his perineum. He reaches around with his right hand to stroke Sherlock in a barely-there motion. “Is this good?”

 

Sherlock can’t keep from squirming and bucking his hips, uncertain if he wants to press forward or backward because both touches are maddeningly not-quite-enough. He growls in frustration. “Yes. No. Not good enough.” He cants his hips forward so the head of the vibrator slides across his anus, trying to press back against it because he _needs_. He grabs fistfulls of the bedding and a wholly unfamiliar sort of keening cry escapes him.

 

John freezes at the sound and then tosses the vibrator aside. “Right, we’ll try that again later,” he says in a desperate tone as he grabs one arsecheek in each hand and digs his fingertips in before licking once across Sherlock’s arsehole.

 

Sherlock groans in surprise and desire because hell yes does he want this, but he wasn’t expecting it at all at this point. He’s not sure if he should say something, or if John will be irritated if he suggests he doesn’t have to continue if he doesn’t want, because John isn’t one to be pushed into anything and- oh, fuck, well apparently he’s fine with it. Sherlock opts for making incoherent noises of encouragement.

 

John considers what he just did for a moment, does it again, and then snickers. “Your arse tastes like vanilla,” he says, his voice a mix of amused joy and desire. “I think- no, I know- I’d like very much to try this for a while, and then slide my fingers inside of you, and then my cock. Please,” he adds, before experimenting with flicking his tongue lightly over the ring of muscle.

 

“Yes, John, that. Do that. As long as you’re not still wanting things you’re not ready for,” Sherlock adds, though he can barely believe he’s risking John changing his mind.

 

“Apparently I’ve warmed up to the idea quickly. Not like this though, I want you facing me while I’m inside of you. Once I’m sure you’re ready, that is.”

 

Sherlock wants to say he’s ready _now_ , but John’s tongue resuming its glorious torture shorts out his ability to form coherent words. How did he live without this for so long? Without touch, without John? He struggles to memorize every sensation, every kiss and lick and bite. He feels like he’s riding a high by the time John’s slicked fingers begin pressing inside of him and John is so careful, so torturously slow as he murmurs praises that any discomfort is barely enough to draw his attention away from the euphoria.

 

John finally guides Sherlock down to lie on his back, and crawls up to kiss him with far more desperation than art as he allows their erections to slide against each other for a minute. “Can I?” he asks, his voice rough and distinctly pleading.

 

“You’d damn well better,” Sherlock manages, because at this point he suspects he’ll go crazy if John doesn’t get the hell inside of in the next thirty seconds. He claws at John’s back and plants his feet on the bed, knees wide in encouragement.

 

“I’ve only had one girlfriend who went in for this, so just tell me if I’m doing something wrong,” John says as he sits back and coats himself with more lube even though Sherlock is already slick with it. “Fuck but you look amazing like this,” he adds as he kneels and takes a few moments to sort out what position will work best.

 

Sherlock growls in frustrated need and grabs a pillow to shove beneath his hips, and then wraps his legs around John’s waist and pulls him close. “Just get inside of me and then figure out how you want me,” he orders because he’s out of patience. “I bend.”  

 

John grins down at him. “So _this_ is where the term bossy bottom comes from. I like it,” he adds, clearly feeling more comfortable now that he knows Sherlock is still himself despite the impending new intimacy. He reaches down and rubs the head of his cock teasingly up and down, pressing lightly and then backing off.  

 

Sherlock scrabbles at John’s hips. “John, I swear to god and all things unholy-” He promptly forgets what he was going to say and instead sucks in a pained breath before he can catch himself as John finally breaches the tight ring of muscle. He closes his eyes and for a moment he forgets to breathe, until John freezes and then begins to pull away.

 

“Shit, I hurt you. I don’t need-”

 

“No! I do. I do need, keep going,” Sherlock encourages. It’s just been so long, his body is no longer used to embracing the initial pain in anticipation of the approaching pleasure. “I don’t want you to stop.”

 

“Okay, okay just...you feel fucking amazing but I don’t want to hurt you.” John is shaking with the effort of holding still. “You’re not even staying hard.”

 

“So get the hell inside of me and get me hard again,” Sherlock snaps, trying his hardest not to simply grab John and yank him forward.

 

John’s eyes are locked on Sherlock’s as he presses forward slowly until he can’t get any closer, his face a study in control. “Gods but I love you, you pushy arse” he pants, dropping forward to rest his weight on his forearms so he can tangle his hands in Sherlock’s hair and kiss him. “I’m not moving until you’re hard again,” he warns, and then promptly contradicts himself by swiveling his hips.

 

Sherlock whimpers into John’s mouth and knows it’s not going to take long because while it hurts, it’s in that amazing, _yes please I’ll have some more_ kind of way and he knows it will fade to pleasure soon. He runs his hands over John’s skin and revels in the kiss and before long he’s adjusted and ready for more. He wraps his legs more firmly around John’s legs and pulls him in, and then accidentally bites John’s lip in reaction to the jolt of pleasure.

 

“Ready then?” John smirks.

 

“Excellent deduction,” Sherlock drawls because he knows it will assure John that he’s fine.

 

“Definitely ready.” John starts in on a steady rhythm.

 

It’s good, but it’s not what Sherlock wants, and he can feel the coiled tension in the way John is trembling with the effort to be careful. “If you don’t start fucking me like you mean it I’m going to call Mary about that strap on and give her a try,” he murmurs against John’s lips. The result is instantaneous and glorious as John growls and snaps his hips forward hard and oh, yes, that’s more like it. He digs his nails into John’s back harder in encouragement.

 

John works his slick hand between them and begins stroking Sherlock in counterpoint to his thrusts. “When that happens, you’ll be sucking my cock at the same time, and you’ll love it, won’t you? You’ll love being ours.”

 

Sherlock feels an added spike of arousal at the visual because _oh yes, please_. “Faster,” he begs, the muscles of his lower abdomen beginning to burn at the effort of meeting John’s suddenly erratic thrusting. The marks on his back sting deliciously at the friction and he’s covered in sweat and John and it’s too good for him to last any longer. A few seconds after John’s hand speeds up he’s biting his lip and making an even bigger mess of them and it’s too intense to even cry out as he can barely breathe.

 

A few more hard snaps of his hips and John follows, his head buried in Sherlock’s neck as he swears and then bites down hard. He collapses on top of Sherlock and licks at the bite mark, his muscles trembling in the wake of his orgasm as he slips out reluctantly. “I think you broke me,” he finally manages. “That was even better than I imagined.”

 

Sherlock feels a thrill of accomplishment. He can’t even be bothered to care about the mess being smeared between them or the odd sensation of dripping between his legs. “It really was. I’ll need data on all of the other positions I imagined as well though. For science.”

 

John props himself up on his elbows and grins down at Sherlock. “No arguments here. I didn’t hurt you then? I rather lost control at the end there.”

 

“That was the best part. And no, I’m just pleasantly sore. I like that I’ll feel it for a while.”

 

“So do I, really. I won’t ask for it again until you’ve recovered though. I’m sure we can think up plenty of other activities. Ugh, we need a shower though. Once I can be arsed to move.”

 

“Let’s try a bath instead. You like them, and I want to keep you close. If that’s alright, that is.” Sherlock still can’t help feeling a bit awkward asking for something so sentimental, despite the fact he has no issues asking for anything sexual.

 

“Very alright. It may be a tight fit, but I’m okay with that.” John kisses Sherlock gently at first, but it becomes heated rather quickly. “It’s almost disturbing how much I still want you, even after we’ve just had sex.”

 

“Good. I can’t have you getting sick of me already,” Sherlock teases, though he feels exactly the same way.

 

“It’s probably a good thing no one’s around to us, because we’re rather disgustingly sweet at the moment. So, bath?” John sits up, makes a face at the mess on his stomach and chest, and then holds out his hand to help Sherlock up.

 

“And then late lunch, and then lounging on the sofa and watching crap telly and texting Mary pictures of our new sex toys,” Sherlock declares.

 

“Sounds like the perfect afternoon.”

 

The bath is indeed a tight fit but they manage, and if it ends in a laughter-filled, splashing, flood-inducing mess, well, there’s no one else around to prove it. They make sandwiches and then settle onto the sofa. Once they’ve eaten, they take pictures of the toys and send them to Mary and pass an amusing hour sending teasing, increasingly explicit texts back and forth.

 

By the end, both John and Sherlock are more than fine with the idea of Mary coming over the next morning. It’s been good, having this time to themselves, but John readily admits to missing her and Sherlock finds he’s surprisingly anxious for her to return as well. He’s curious to figure out how their dynamic will work, and finds he’s looking forward to being a part of the intimacy John and Mary share, rather than merely an outside observer.

 

They half watch ridiculous daytime telly, and experiment with various ways to fit onto the sofa together comfortably. They’re feeling too lazy to make a late dinner, so they wander down to Speedy’s and eat. It feels oddly like a first date, and Sherlock isn’t quite sure how to act around John in public. He knows how he _wants_ to act, but he finds he’s more nervous than he thought he’d be. John is the one to finally roll his eyes and reach for Sherlock’s hand across the table. No one pays them any mind, and Sherlock thrills at the show of affection.

 

They’ve just settled back onto the sofa and are considering what movie to watch when there is a loud stomping, the sound of someone falling on the stairs, laughter, and more clattering coming from outside the door.

 

“Apparently Victor and Lestrade did about as well as we did on your stag night,” Sherlock observes, his voice full of amusement. “It’s not half seven.”

 

A moment later the men in question come stumbling through the door in a laughing tangle of limbs as they try-and fail- to walk through at the same time.

 

Victor stops Greg from falling flat on his face and then points at the sofa with a mirthful smile. “I told you! Aren’t they adorable? Now, let’s deduce which one is sitting funny.” He and Greg manage to trip their way over to half-lean half-sit drunkenly on the edge of John’s chair. Their faces are a study in exaggerated concentration.

 

Greg finally makes an ‘aha’ noise and raises his finger in the air as if he has an important point to make. He begins in an attempt at a pompous voice that turns into a slurred drawl. “I hereby deduce- stop sssssnickering Victor, he saysit essacly like that- that ah...lessseeee...Sherlock!” He looks inordinately proud of himself. Victor and Greg look at them expectantly.

 

“Was there a bet?” Sherlock asks in a mildly irritated voice, though he’s in too good a mood to be terribly bothered by the drunken idiots.

 

Victor shrugs. “Well there would’ve been, but both of us thought it would be you.”

 

“I’m trying to decide if I should be annoyed or not you didn’t think I could take it,” John comments.

 

“It’s not about you taking it-” Victor begins, before Greg interrupts with a snort and a renewed bout of laughter. Victor finally catches on to what he said and smacks Greg on the shoulder. “Well okay, I guess in a way it is. But Greg insisted Sherlock’s been the one begging to be taken hard over a squad car for years and I just know how much he loves it. We’re right, aren’t we?”

 

“Someone give the man a medal,” Sherlock drawls, rolling his eyes and pulling John closer against his side.

 

“We’ll settle for Scotch,” Greg replies with a lopsided grin. “This one insisted on comin’ back here instead of dropping by Molly’s for a drink. She’s soooooo pretty. Isn’t she so pretty?”

 

“Yeah, I’d say that was a good call,” John says with an amused look at Greg’s attempts not to slide off the arm of the chair. “Do you even have any Scotch Sherlock?”

 

“I bought some! I didn’t know he couldn’t hold his liquor,” Victor replies by way of apology as he walks in a slightly crooked line over to the kitchen and pulls a bottle out of a cupboard. “Macallan 1939. I thought these two might like to toast to finally pulling their heads out of their arses.” He digs around for four glasses.

 

“Christ, you could pay my salary with a few of those.” Greg whistles as he holds his hand out for the bottle. “I’m keeping him, Sherlock,” he declares as he opens it and sets it on the coffee table before going over to drag two chairs over for himself and Victor to sit in. He pours two low glasses half-full and slides them forward. “You need to catch up.”

 

John gives Sherlock a ‘what do you think?’ look.

 

“You owe me for not inviting me to the lasss stag night, you bastards,” Greg pronounces. “This can be yours, cuz you’re pretty much married too now, huh?” He holds out his glass and waits for them to toast with him.

 

Sherlock blinks in surprise. He had no idea Lestrade would be so accepting. He gives John a ‘what the hell’ look and clinks his glass against Greg’s and smiles as John follows suit. “Alright, what do you have planned? I’m assuming you’re in charge of this one.”

 

Greg considers, and then looks over at Victor with a smirk. “Well I suppooose this one could strip for you, but I don’ need those kinds of nightmares.”

 

“I resent that!” Victor cries. “I’m an excellent dancer. But not, that would be awkward for all concerned. Drinking games it is!”

 

“Seriously? We’re not in university anymore, Victor,” John points out. And I’m not sure a bottle of Scotch that could buy a car is drinking game material.”

 

“Anything for my best friend and my future best friend’s stag night!” Victor declares. “Now stop being a spoilsport and find us a deck of cards so we can play Bullshit.”

 

“What’s Bullshit?” John asks.

 

“Cheat, whatever,” Victor amends.

 

“Bloody American,” Greg slurs, poking Victor in the shoulder.

 

“My alcohol my rules!” Victor declares. “And either way, Sherlock needs to be drunk for it to be any fun because I know from experience it’s impossible to sneak a bluff past him when he’s sober. So finish that, and then we’ll begin.” Victor eyes Sherlock’s glass expectantly.

 

“Yes do, I didn’t get to take advantage of you nearly as much as I should have the last time we were drunk together,” John encourages.

 

“You’re all horrible influences and I’ve no idea why I put up with any of you,” Sherlock somehow manages with a straight face. Until the three matching sets of ‘you have got to be kidding me right now’ stares make him crack a smile. He winks and downs the drink, which burns pleasantly on the way down. “Right then, shall we begin?”

 

They only manage three hands before Greg basically passes out in the middle of a drunken ode to Molly’s adorable jumpers. Sherlock can relate. They drag him over to the sofa and drape a blanket over him. By this point Victor is barely more coherent, so John helps him up to bed while Sherlock stumbles into the kitchen for a glass of water to leave by Lestrade at John’s insistence. He suspects none of them are going to be feeling especially chipper come morning.

 

When John comes back in, Sherlock immediately presses him against the door and kisses him. Because he can, because his mind is unable to think of anything coherently aside from vague ideas of getting John naked, of kissing him and touching him as much as possible. Also because he can. “Our turn for bed then?”

 

“Once we clean our teeth and drink a glass of water each so morning is slightly less miserable, definitely.”

 

Sherlock whines in displeasure because he wants John in bed _now._

 

“You’ll thank me in the morning,” John promises.

 

Sherlock concedes, as long as he can be touching John at all times.

 

“You’re like a puppy,” John laughs as Sherlock leans his head on John’s shoulder while they clean their teeth. “It’s not a bad thing,” he adds hurriedly.

 

“Obviously. Canines are intelligent and loyal and fierce protectors. Being referred to as one could hardly be construed as an insult,” he replies, pleased at still being able to use complex words.

 

“I love you,” John says in reply.

 

They tumble into bed and laugh as they get tangled in each other’s clothes while attempting to remove them. By the time they’re finally naked and curled up beneath the blankets Sherlock finds he’s sleepier than he’d thought. He yawns into a lazy kiss. “Sorry. You’re not boring me, I swear.”

 

“It’s fine. I’m tired as well. If we just go to sleep will you mind?”

 

“Not at all,” Sherlock assures John, tucking himself more securely up against all of that wonderfully warm skin. He sighs in contentment when John’s arms pull him in even closer.

 

“Sweet dreams,” John murmurs into Sherlock’s hair.

  
Sherlock mumbles a reply, and then slips easily into dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, dear reader, for following this story for so long! I am going to do my best to continue updating weekly, but my new job means I can only write once my son is in bed so that's about 2 hrs. a night. Possibly a bit more on weekends, if he actually goes to his dad's on Saturday. So if this updates a bit slower that's why- but I'm writing every day so it will definitely be finished no matter what! Promise!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well it was a bit more of a wait this time- but I promise I'm still working on this story every day! Writing the Mary back story and explanation of her actions was a bit complicated, and they aren't done talking about everything they need to yet but it's a good start at least! Thank you so much for following along this far! And lots of love to Hedwig-Dordt, for making sure this makes any kind of sense! Extra hugs darling!

Alcohol, Sherlock decides, is evil. As are mornings and daylight in general. His eyes are closed and he’s lying back in his chair with John tucked in sideways across his lap. John who is also scrunching his eyes shut and lamenting his general existence despite the fact that he’s the least hungover. He’d finally groaned and agreed to dig up paracetamol and start the coffee because they were all well past the point of tea, but he hasn’t moved since.

 

Lestrade is curled up in the fetal position on one side of the sofa while Victor is sprawled across the other end. It’s 10 am and the most either has managed is a trip to the washroom. This as productive as their day has been so far. Yes, alcohol is _evil._ Sherlock perks up a bit and lifts his head as the footsteps on the stairs register. “What are the odds we can convince Mary to bring us the coffee?” he mumbles.

 

John groans. “Oh god, I sent her drunken texts didn’t I? I’ve no idea what I said. It probably hinges on that. Christ, my head hurts.” He attempts to sit up a bit straighter but doesn’t move off of Sherlock’s lap.

 

“I think you told her she has pretty toes and you miss her peach pie,” Victor manages, peeking at the door with one eye. “I’m not sure if that’s some sort of sexual inside joke.”

 

“Don’t even mention food,” Greg moans, burying his head further beneath his crumpled suit jacket.

 

The door opens and Mary steps inside with a suitcase in one hand and a plastic grocery bag in the other. “Really boys? Four of you and no one had the sense to stop when the room began to spin?” She sets the suitcase down and breezes across the room to kiss both John and Sherlock on the forehead. “So I have the toes of a dancer and you’re still mad, but you also want to watch Sherlock and I make pie crust together because there would be naked aprons involved?” She gives John an amused sort of smile.

 

“Well I was close,” Victor states, trying to stretch out onto the sofa but running into Greg’s legs. He kicks at them feebly.

 

“Stop pushing!” Greg kicks back and a rather pathetic sort of battle for possession of the sofa ensues. “John, I gave you my entire sofa, why do I have to share yours? And where are you hiding the prescription painkillers Sherlock?”

 

John rubs his eyes in embarrassment and ignores the entire scene on the sofa. “Sorry. I should’ve hidden the phone from myself after that third glass. This isn’t exactly the way I pictured our reunion.”

 

Mary shrugs. “I don’t know, this is pretty entertaining.”

 

Sherlock manages to open both eyes. It’s not fun. “That bit about the toes was me. I think. It’s all a bit fuzzy. And I don’t have any prescription drugs, Gavin.”

 

“Just what sort of useless drug addict are you, _Bill_?” Greg asks pointedly.

 

“The kind without a drug problem!” Sherlock half-shouts before he realizes that level of noise is like spikes being driven into his temples.

 

“Ouch! John, kiss him and keep him quiet or something,” Victor gripes. “Or Mary can do it, whatever works.”

 

Mary turns to Victor with an assessing look. “You must be the infamous Victor. Ta for the strap-on.” She walks over and holds out her hand.

 

Victor takes it and tugs her closer so he can kiss it. “My pleasure. Or, well, Sherlock’s.”

 

“Aaaand that’s one visual I’ll never get rid of,” Greg grumbles. A second later he realizes how that sounded. “I mean no- nothing against you Mary, it’s just that the idea of Sherlock naked makes me want to scrub the insides of my eyeballs.”

 

“Well, that makes one of you,” she replies with a smirk.

 

“That’s...how the _hell_ did I end up in a room where everyone else has either had sex with him or is planning on it? This is straight out of The Twilight Zone,” Greg laments, still from beneath his jacket.

 

“Well you don’t look like you’re in any condition to leave anytime soon, but I brought ingredients for my famous Bloody Mary hangover cures. One of those, some toast, and then some coffee and you’ll be ready to drag your arse home in no time,” Mary promises.

 

“I had my reservations about you, but I’ve just now decided I adore you as well,” Victor pronounces. “Do you make yours with celery salt?”

 

“And a dill pickle instead of a celery stalk,” Mary replies as she heads for the kitchen to begin laying out the ingredients.

 

“Yep, you can stay,” Victor declares.

 

“If this is an apology it’s a good start,” John whispers to Sherlock. “You don’t think she’s just pretending everything is fine for Victor and Greg do you?”

 

Sherlock watches her pouring tomato juice into a cocktail shaker. “I don’t think so. She dressed carefully in the blue shirt you like and she’s wearing new perfume. Plus there’s the suitcase. Big enough for a few days stay at least, so she’s hoping not to leave anytime soon.”

 

“Good. I’ve missed her, Sherlock, despite everything,” John replies quietly.

 

“I know. I’m glad she’s here as well. And not just because I don’t have to get up and get my own coffee.” Sherlock finds that it’s true. While he’s a bit nervous about navigating their new dynamic, he’s also looking forward to figuring out the only other woman who has ever been an intriguing mystery to him. With two such interesting people in his life, he doubts he’ll be bored for a very long time.

 

Mary makes the drinks and some toast and carries everything out on a tray. She has to shove the empty Scotch bottle and glasses aside with her foot to make room, but she manages. “Come out from beneath that tent of yours and have one Greg, I promise it will help.” She hands each of them a glass and a slice of buttered toast and then angles John’s chair so she can better see all of them. Then she crosses her legs and sips at her own glass with a bright smile. “Don’t worry, mine’s virgin. So...thrilling evening?”

 

“It’s Victor’s fault,” Greg states immediately. “And this is amazing. You’re an angel.”

 

Victor snorts in indignation. “How is it my fault?! You were the one who insisted on stopping in so many pubs! Don’t believe him, Mary. He’s just upset he can’t hold his liquor.”

 

“I’m upset because you cheat at Cheat and made me take more shots than I should’ve had to,” Greg retorts. “And possibly that I was already too drunk to appreciate Scotch older than my dad.”

 

“Hold on, you boys wasted good Scotch on a drinking game? You deserve your hangovers,” Mary sighs, shaking her head. “You could’ve at least saved me some. It would keep another six months I’m sure.”

 

“There’s another bottle,” Victor says with a nonchalant wave in the direction of the kitchen.

 

“Oh. Well that’s fine then,” Mary replies brightly.

 

Victor raises his glass to her in a toast. “I figure you’ll need it. Sherlock obsessing over a baby’s care would drive anyone to drink.”

 

“I won’t obsess!” Sherlock protests. Well, not more than necessary. Mary and John give him matching dubious looks. “Much,” he finally adds.

 

They finish their drinks and toast, and then Mary brings them each a cup of coffee. They talk about nothing, as far as Sherlock is concerned, and it’s beginning to grate. He’s never been any good at small talk and he’s anxious for the unspoken conversations that hang in the space between them. Finally he snaps. “Lestrade, it’s been fun but don’t you have somewhere you need to be? Work possibly?” He gives Greg a pointed look.

 

Greg drains his coffee and sets the mug down, looking between the three of them with an expression of guilt. “Right. Best be off. Mary, thank you for saving my life. Victor, let’s never do that again. I’ll just go crawl back into my bed now.” He gets up, slips on his sadly wrinkled suit jacket, and heads for the door.

 

“Give Molly a call!” Victor shouts as the door closes. “Well, would you look at the time? It’s only five a.m. in New York, what am I doing up? I’ll just head upstairs. You three enjoy yourselves!” He stands up, stretches, and saunters out the door with a salute.

 

Once Victor is gone, John looks uncertainly back and forth between Mary and Sherlock. “So...I have no idea how to do this. You’re too far away, Mary, aren’t you? Maybe we should move to the sofa. Or is that weird?”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I think we broke him already,” he says to Mary. “For a dominant personality he requires an awful lot of direction,” he adds in a teasing voice.

 

“The trick is to let him think it’s his idea,” Mary points out with a grin.

 

“Ah, I knew I was doing _something_ wrong all those years,” Sherlock replies.

 

“I’m right here!” John cries in mock indignation. “Oh god, I think I just realized what I’m getting into with you two.”

 

“You love us,” Mary quips as she gets up and sits on the left side of the sofa. She pats the spot next to her.

 

“Well, we’ve all got our flaws.” John gets up and runs for the sofa, laughing and narrowly avoiding Sherlock’s attempt at smacking his arse. He sits next to Mary and puts his right arm around her waist.

 

Sherlock cocks his head, trying to decide where to sit, when Mary pats her thigh. He flops gratefully onto the sofa, laying his head on Mary’s lap and his shoulders on John’s thighs. He sighs in contentment and then wriggles his head in encouragement.

 

Mary takes the not-so-subtle hint and begins carding her fingers through Sherlock’s curls. “It’s just as soft as it looks. I have to admit I’ve wanted to do this for quite some time. He really is the hedonist, isn’t he John?”

 

John rucks up the bottom of Sherlock’s t-shirt and begins tracing patterns on his stomach. “Definitely. It’s one of his better qualities.”

 

“I’m here as well,” Sherlock points out, narrowly resisting the urge to stick his tongue out at John. But this, being petted by both of them, is already better than he imagined, and he’s in a ridiculously good mood despite the knowledge that they have a lot of serious things to discuss.

 

“This is- How is it we can joke about strap-ons but the rest is awkward? I don’t even know where to start,” John sighs.

 

“Sex is easy, it’s bodies and pleasure and fun,” Mary points out. “Everything else requires getting far more vulnerable than simple nudity. Why don’t we start with, did you read my files? I’m guessing, from the way you’ve been texting me and acting, that you haven’t.”

 

“No, we didn’t. I nearly did a few times, but no. And Sherlock wanted to wait to hear it from you.”

 

“There’s far more to deduce in person,” Sherlock points out, then realizes that sounded rather cold. “Not that I think you’ll be lying, I just want to see...how you feel about what you’re saying, I suppose.”

 

“It’s fine, Sherlock. I’m just nervous. I’ve never had this much to lose before.”

 

Mary’s expression is as genuinely frightened as Sherlock has ever seen it. He doesn’t like it. “Do something John, she’s clearly thinking you’re already too upset with her to even consider kissing her hello!”

 

John blinks in surprise. “That’s not what I- it just seemed odd in front the others and you were rather holding me down and- oh, fuck it.” He leans over and kisses Mary gently at first, and then deeper until some of the tension has visibly drained from her body.

 

Sherlock watches in fascination and bites back a little whine when Mary’s hand in his hair tightens because this isn’t the time for sexual thoughts. It’s not that he hasn’t seen John kiss Mary before, but this is different. This is a kiss meant to be shared in private, being shared with him. He feels a sudden rush of protectiveness because they’re _his_ now, and he’s not losing them. “Whatever it is, we’re not leaving you. After all, you’ve already shot me and I’m still here. It can hardly be worse than that.”

 

Mary makes a choked sort of half-laugh. “That’s a fair point. Where to start...well I am an orphan. My parents were British, but I was born in America. We lived there until I was fourteen, and then they were killed in a car accident. I was sent back here to live with my grandmother, and it was all downhill from there I suppose. I’m not asking for pity, so don’t either of you say ‘I’m sorry,’” she adds.

 

“Of course not. I didn’t kill them after all,” Sherlock states. He doesn’t do pity.   

 

John kisses her temple. “How about I’m sorry he’s a dickhead,” he says, rolling his eyes at Sherlock.

 

“Your lack of social nicety bullshit is one of the things I like best about you Sherlock, don’t mind him,” Mary says before continuing. “I didn’t like her, and she didn’t much like being stuck with me. She and my mother had some sort of falling out and hadn’t spoken in years. So I was basically left to my own devices, which included shooting bottles in the woods with the boy next door. Turns out I was good. Really good. I started shooting competitively, and I got noticed. My grandma was more than willing to ship me back to the US for a NRA scholarship competition, and I won. Long story short, I never finished college. I was recruited by the government, and the rest is heavily redacted history.”

 

“I knew you didn’t grow up here,” Sherlock nods. “I’m assuming the files contain your sordid history as an operative. Wetwork for the CIA, things like that. What I don’t understand is _why_ that’s anything you think John would hate you for. He’s killed people and so have I. If you killed a few families for money that’s morally reprehensible I suppose, but it’s nothing to do with John now.”

 

Mary looks offended. “I didn’t kill entire families! Never children! Just a few bad people who the world would be better off without. People like Magnussen. And yes, I took jobs on the side once I decided I was ready to get out. It’s expensive to disappear, as I’m sure you discovered.”

 

“Hmmm, that’s true. The new identity couldn’t have come cheap,” Sherlock considers.

 

John looks like something has finally clicked. “Or that wedding, or your car, or flat, or your love of new shoes. The money never did add up to a nurse’s salary, I just assumed it was some sort of insurance money from your parents.”

 

Mary shakes her head no. “So this is the...complicated part. I wanted one last job before retiring, and I got an offer from a man. I was to set up a sniper rifle in a location allowing me to fire into this ridiculously expensive penthouse flat. The man gave me a very specific list of things he wanted shot, and in what order. Bizarre things. A fish tank. A photograph of a wedding party. An apple. The bottom crystal of a chandelier. I didn’t even have to kill anyone. I just watched a woman on a mobile phone walk from room to room and freak the hell out as I shot whatever I was directed. I’ve no idea why he paid what he did, but he said it was an investment. I told him I was finished after this, and he just laughed. This insane laugh. I never met him and I only got one name.” She takes a deep breath. “Moriarty.”

 

John looks like he wants to be more shocked. “What? You were working for that psychopath?!”

 

Sherlock merely hums and lets his mind begin making connections. He suspects he knows exactly what is coming next, and why Mary was so adamant John not find out. He doubts as if John has made the same connection yet.

 

“I didn’t know he was a psychopath at the time!” Mary points out defensively.

 

John sighs. “So you didn’t want me to find out you worked for the man who essentially got Sherlock killed and made my life a living hell. That makes sense, but it’s not as if you knew what he would get up to.”

 

“I don’t think she’s finished, John,” Sherlock states. “I would also like to remind you that any jumping up and making a scene will ruin my comfortable position and my head still aches, so I’d ask you remain seated.”

 

John looks at Mary uncertainly. “Do you have something to add?”

 

“I was at the pool,” she says in a rush, her eyes locked on John’s and her expression one of having just heard the screeching of tires before an unavoidable crash.

 

For a moment John just stares at her and then he gets _that_ look. The incongruously angry smile that historically doesn’t bode well. He does not, however, try to get up. “You-” He begins, then purses his lips and visibly tries to remain calm. The hand on Sherlock’s belly forms a fist. “You would’ve killed me. Or him. You- that means you fucking knew who I was when met. That was...Christ that was nearly a year later. What were you doing? Stalking me? Were- fuck, were you there when he jumped too?!”

 

“No! I can explain. John, just- listen. It had been years since I took that job for Moriarty. I’d finished nursing school, and I’d broken it off with David, and I was running low on funds. It was...most of me didn’t want to go back, wanted my new normal life, but part of me...wanted to charge into a drug den with a tire lever,” she says pointedly. “I’m abnormally attracted to danger as well. And when Moriarty called with the offer he said I’d just be security for him and I wouldn’t have to shoot to kill and I just...took the job.”

 

“You were bored so you thought you’d just go shoot someone, is that it?” John asks, his tone incredulous.

 

“You were bored so you invaded a foreign country,” Sherlock interjects. “And you were prepared to shoot people because someone was paying you as well.”

 

“Hang on, there’s a rather large difference between shooting someone for money and being an army doctor! I was protecting people!” John protests.

 

“Well, she was ostensibly protecting Moriarty. Not her finest hour I grant you, but there you have it,” Sherlock counters.

 

“There are so many flaws in that argument I don’t even know where to begin,” John sighs, rubbing his eyes. “So okay, you nearly shot us. Then what? And how did Magnussen even find out about it?”

 

“Moriarty gave him everything he had on me right after I refused his next job offer some time later, which is _why_ I wasn’t there when Sherlock jumped. I didn’t know you were the job, just that I was done with that life, so I turned him down when he asked me if I wanted a sniper job. Potentially with a killshot. It wasn’t until the story of Moriarty being a fake hit the papers that I knew what he must have been asking for.”

 

“How could you possibly know that?” John asks, his tone suspicious.

 

“Because he’d asked me if I’d like a job taking out his favorite nemesis’ pet. I didn’t make the connection until Sherlock died and I saw you in the papers, John. Then Magnussen contacted me a few months after we started dating and said that Moriarty had given him a lovely gift, and I could be his tigress on a leash or he’d tell you what I’d nearly done. I wasn’t particularly worried since I doubted you’d believe him since there was no proof I was at the pool. Then Sherlock came back, and I knew I’d never be able to lie successfully to him should Magnussen make the same threat again. Which he did, the morning I shot you,” she says to Sherlock.

 

“What did he want?” Sherlock asks, his mind already working on how to bend this to their advantage.

 

“He wanted me to break into the home of one of his competitors and frighten him and his family into selling a controlling interest in his company to Magnussen. He said if I didn’t, he’d tell John who I really was. He warned me that he carries the memory stick with the files from Moriarty with him at all times, so it would be easy to send John a copy. He wanted to own me, and I couldn’t let that happen. I was at his office that night trying to get it back, since it was easier getting to him at work than at his fortress of a home.”

 

“How do you even know he doesn’t have a duplicate?” John asks. “But what I’m _really_ wondering is if you came to work for my clinic on purpose. Because of me. Because that’s...both creepy and flattering, really.”

 

“I don’t _know_ he doesn’t have a copy, but I had to do something! This isn’t just about me anymore. It’s about our baby. You’ve no idea how protective I feel over her, John. I want her to have a life without Magnussen threatening her, because he’d see her as just another pressure point and that _can not happen_. And I know I should’ve told you, but I just wanted us to have a normal life. One where you didn’t know your wife was hired to point a sniper rifle at you. And as for the other thing, yes, I applied to work at the clinic because of you. But I wasn’t stalking you or anything. Well, not in a creepy way. Much.”

 

John looks at her, then down at Sherlock as if asking for help. “That’s…a lot to take in.”

 

“How do you know it’s a girl?” Sherlock asks, eyeing her stomach curiously.

 

Mary blinks at him in surprise. “Of course you’d latch onto that. I just...know. I can’t explain it.”

 

“Hmm...perhaps I can run a few of those ridiculous experiments meant to sort out gender and see if any prove correct. Most are entirely painless. It would be a rather fascinating study-”

 

“You are not experimenting on my child before she’s even born!” John interjects.

 

Sherlock smiles up at him innocently. “Ah good, you’re protective as well. Now perhaps you better understand her point. What would you do, John, to keep your child safe? And to keep Mary from finding out a secret that you think she might never forgive you for?”

 

John looks conflicted. “I. Okay yes, I get that. I’m still pissed about it though, Mary. I am. I’m trying to get past it, but there’s a good chance my being angry with you will come out at times.”

 

“But you’re not going to leave us,” Mary says hopefully, her hand coming to rest on her stomach.

 

“No. Apparently I’m doomed to fall in love with people who make it a practice to lie to me about rather massive issues. I’m not entirely certain what that says about me.”

 

Sherlock takes John’s hand and brings it to his lips for a kiss. “That you’re a better man than we deserve, and we’re lucky to have you. And we know it, don’t we Mary? And we’ve made a pact to do better, and not lie to you again. Haven’t we?”

 

Mary blinks back the moisture at the corners of her eyes. “Pinky swear,” she says, holding out her finger for Sherlock.

 

“I suppose I should get used to such childish rituals if I’m to help raise one,” Sherlock sighs as he hooks his pinky over Mary’s and shakes it. “I’ve been informed you can’t break a pinky swear, or the East Wind will come and get you. Though that was likely just Mycroft trying to convince me not to tell Mummy we broke her favorite mug.”

 

John looks back and forth between them with a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “You two are impossible to stay upset at, but you know that don’t you?”

 

“No,” they reply in tandem, with matching overly- innocent looks.

 

“Though I think it’s to our advantage to stay good in bed,” Sherlock adds sagely, winking at Mary.

 

“Oh, I think we can handle that,” she agrees, leaning over to nibble at John’s ear.

 

“No! No distracting me with sex. I’m still upset over here,” John protests, looking Mary in the eyes. “Now tell me about how we met.”

 

Mary gives Sherlock a _‘we tried_ ’ look and then continues. “I think I fell a little bit in love with you that day at the pool, watching you. You were so concerned for Sherlock, so selfless. Loyal. You were going to let him shoot that bomb and risk both of you dying rather than let Moriarty win. By that point I’d determined I’d shoot Moriarty before either of you, not that I have any way to prove it. Plus, you were bloody gorgeous,” she adds.

 

John clears his throat and nearly blushes. “Me? When _he_ was right there too?”

 

Mary rolls her eyes. “Not all of us have your taste in men. No offense, Sherlock.”

 

“None taken,” Sherlock shrugs. Personally, he considers John to be more attractive as well.

 

“At any rate,” Mary continues, “It wasn’t terribly difficult to Google a name like ‘Sherlock,’ and I found your blog. And Sherlock’s, but that one is a bit of a bore.”

 

“Why does no one appreciate ash like I do?” Sherlock huffs.

 

“Oh sweetie, you’re pretty,” Mary croons.

 

Sherlock gives her the finger.

 

“Moving on…” John interjects.

 

“Right. So I started following your blog. It was fascinating. You were so...interesting. I fell a bit in love with you through your writing long before we ever met,” Mary admits. “I tried to come up with a way to meet you, but everything seemed so silly. And I was afraid you’d find out who I really was, and you’d hate me. But then Sherlock died, and you were alone, and the papers made it look like you were so miserable...and I couldn’t stand that. I wanted to help. So I applied for a job at your clinic. Everything that followed was real, John. It’s not as if I could trick you into falling in love with me. I just...the more time passed the more difficult it was to bring myself to tell you the truth, and eventually I just gave up on the idea of telling you entirely. I love you so much, and I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. It’s selfish and horrible, but it’s true.”

 

Sherlock shrugs. “Clearly John doesn’t mind selfish and horrible as much as some people. He put up with me for years after all.”

 

John sighs. “That’s probably a fair point. Alright, I can understand all of that even though the idea of you working for Moriarty makes my skin crawl. But- and this is my major problem- why did you have to shoot him? Why not just ask for his help? For mine? Didn’t you trust me at all?”

 

“I didn’t want to have to! I wanted to be what you thought I was. Normal. Your normal wife who bakes bread, and steals all the covers, and constantly forgets to stop for milk on the way home, and sneaks into your treatment room for kisses between patients. That’s the life I wanted, not the one where I sneak off in the night with a gun to retrieve stolen files.”

 

Sherlock gives her a reassuring pat on the knee. “I don’t know, even I think that’s rather hot and I’m not generally attracted to women. John, I don’t suppose you could dig her up a military uniform as well some time...” He says it to lighten the mood- a sure sign of how gone for them he is- but now that he considers it, it sounds like one of his better plans.

 

“I thought we agreed no distracting me with sex,” John accuses, poking Sherlock in the stomach.

 

“Ah, the military kink,” Mary nods.

 

“Does _everyone_ know about that?” Sherlock asks, trying not to feel self-conscious.

 

“Probably,” Mary acknowledges. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t hot. And yes, no distracting John with sex. No mentioning the idea of me ordering you to suck him off while he’s still in uniform...and I imagine I can get that strap-on over the uniform he’s planning on buying me at this very moment...but we won’t talk about that now,” she says, giving Sherlock a wink as she tugs on his curls a bit.

 

“Definitely not,” Sherlock replies in a low rumble. He swallows hard and reminds himself John needs to talk things out before he’s ready for sex. Which is probably more normal than how ready he personally is at this moment, he knows. Not that knowing makes him any more patient than he’s ever been.

 

John looks back and forth between them incredulously. “How is it possible that you two are so fine with each other? Sherlock, she shot you. You could’ve killed him Mary, and now you’re just...playing with his hair and casually discussing sexual kinks. I’ve no idea how you two manage to make me feel like the crazy one.”

 

Mary gives John an apologetic look. “You’re not crazy. You’ve every right to be upset, and I’m sorry I’m making light of this. It’s a coping mechanism. Sherlock and I just...understand each other, I suppose. I’ll try to explain, but I know you won’t understand, not really. Because you’re a better person than-” she glances at Sherlock- “me.”

 

“No, feel free to say ‘us’,” Sherlock acknowledges. He knows it’s true.

 

“Us then. You wouldn’t lie about your entire past, or fake your own suicide, because you’d be too concerned about what it would do to everyone else. So. That night, I had just a few seconds to decide what to do. I didn’t want to risk you finding me there, so I had to take Sherlock out of the picture. I’d just figured out the files weren’t on Magnussen, so I needed him alive, which is why I didn’t shoot him. I thought if I could keep Sherlock out for a while, I would have time to convince him not to tell you. I thought the mystery would be enough to keep him quiet until I figured out what to do. I didn’t realize how he’d changed. How he’d decided to stop keeping secrets from you. A logical deduction, given how he’d just finished keeping a drug relapse from you.”

 

“I didn’t have a drug relapse, not really! That’s why I didn’t feel the need to share it!” Sherlock protests.

 

“Well how was I to know that?” Mary asks, her tone exasperated. “Regardless. I shot him, yes. In a location that could’ve killed him. Because I liked him too much to kill him outright, but I was feeling threatened enough that if it had happened despite my calling the ambulance so quickly…” She cringes a bit. “I know, it’s horrible. And maybe you can’t forgive me after all, knowing that, but I’m going to be honest with you John, no matter what.” She glances at John, then focuses on the way Sherlock’s curls move between her fingers.

 

“So you were okay with him dying. You knew what he meant to me, and you were somehow still _fine_ with that?” John asks, his voice tense.

 

“How could I possibly know what he meant to you?!” Mary protests. “Honestly John, how? Sure you talked about him at first, and you were clearly grieving, but you stopped talking about him. You stopped even _mentioning_ him. You never even went to see Mrs. Hudson and rarely went for drinks with Greg even though they were apparently this huge part of you life with Sherlock. You shrugged off my interest in reading your blog. And then he shows up out of the clear blue nowhere and the first thing you do is attack him. Several times. _Then_ it was like pulling teeth to get you to go out on a case with him- I had to basically trick you into thinking it was for Sherlock’s benefit. I kept asking if we should have him over to dinner, if you wanted to go spend time with him, but you kept saying it was fine, we had a wedding to plan and he may as well get used to life being different now. It was obvious how much Sherlock missed you, how he was head over bloody heels in love with you, but you didn’t seem to want to acknowledge it. Then you went a straight month without so much as talking to him after we were married so tell me John, HOW EXACTLY WAS I TO KNOW WHAT HE MEANT TO YOU?”

 

John gapes at her. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again and visibly deflates. “Well, shit. I didn’t realize...from your perspective I suppose...but it just hurt so much to talk about him, and like I told him earlier, seeing our old friends made it seem too real. And then he was back and I was so angry that he lied to me...and I didn’t think I could have him. Have this. I loved him, and I loved you, and it was a bit much to deal with so yeah, I guess I came across as uncaring.”

 

“Couldn’t you be honest with her? Didn’t you trust her at all? ” Sherlock asks, his tone clearly mimicking John’s earlier question.

 

“It’s not the same thing-”

 

“It was you being afraid to tell her something about yourself because you thought it could mean you’d lose her. Your secret love for me was hardly as dramatic as her secret past, but you were still too afraid to share it. I think there’s a valid comparison there,” Sherlock argues.

 

Mary laces her fingers with John’s where they rest on Sherlock’s stomach. “John. The things I’ve done are awful, I know. But I can’t change them now. All I can do is tell you I still love you, and I want to share a life with you. And Sherlock. And our daughter. I can’t say it’s the life I thought I’d be living, but I can tell you I’m rather pleased things turned out better than I imagined.”

 

John looks at her closely, and then down at Sherlock. “So she shot you, but you’re not holding any kind of grudge.”

 

Sherlock shakes his head. “No. She surprised me, I must admit. I didn’t think she’d do it, but I understand why she did. Not many people surprise me. You’re rather wonderful that way,” he says, giving Mary a genuine smile.

 

Mary smiles back fondly. “And you’re still willing to share the man you love with me. You’re rather wonderful yourself.”

 

John continues looking back and forth between them with a confused sort of lopsided grin. “I can’t say I’ll ever fully understand either one of you, but if you’re okay with each other I guess the least I can do is try to get over the past few weeks as well. Just know It’s not going to be as easy for me, and it may take some time. But it doesn’t mean I don’t want this, or that I don’t still love you. Both of you.”

 

“I’d say that’s more than fair,” Sherlock allows. “Mary?”

 

“Definitely,” she replies, tension visibly draining from her body. “Now does anyone else feel like a nap? I haven’t slept well in weeks.”

 

“A nap sounds amazing,” John admits. “Just sleeping though.”

 

“Can there be snuggling on my bed?” Sherlock asks hopefully.

 

“Oh, yes please. I’ve not slept well alone,” Mary admits.

 

“That means you have to get up, Sherlock,” John points out.

 

Sherlock groans. “But I’m so comfy. Never mind, this is good.”

 

“I say we stand up on three and dump him onto the floor,” John suggests to Mary. “One...Two…”

 

“I’m moving,” Sherlock grumps, though really the bed sounds like a far better idea. They make their way into the bedroom, and Sherlock climbs on and immediately flops onto the left side. “John can be in the middle this time,” he suggest, since he suspects John rather needs it after that discussion.

 

John doesn’t protest, just flops down on his back and holds his right arm out for Mary as Sherlock snuggles in. She climbs on and tucks herself into his side and slings her top leg over his in a practiced move. John lies still for a moment, then tilts his head to give Mary a soft kiss before turning to give one to Sherlock as well. “I think I’m just too tired for this to feel awkward.”

 

“Or maybe it’s just not awkward,” Sherlock offers, yawning and nuzzling contentedly into John’s neck as he drapes his arm over John’s stomach to rest on Mary’s waist.

 

“He’s the genius, we should probably listen to him,” Mary mumbles, bringing her hand across to tug at the hem of Sherlock’s t-shirt until she finds bare skin to trace light circular patterns on. “Sweet dreams, my boys.”

 

Even though he’s tired, Sherlock decides he’ll stay awake. He has too much new data to analyze to waste time being unconscious. He thinks that all the way up until the soft brushes of Mary’s fingers and the rise and fall of John’s chest lull him to sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still writing this, I promise! My pace just slowed due to life...but it will definitely be finished!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well it was a long time coming, but this is finally a chapter full of smutty, fluffy, threesome goodness! I sincerely apologize for the delay. Real life and a new job have severely limited my writing time, but I am definitely still working on this and it will definitely be finished!! Lots of love for sticking around this long. Extra big snuggles to the wonderful Hedwig-Dordt, Beta extraordinaire!

Sherlock wakes to the warmth and safety of John’s body covering his own. He tilts his head back and hums in appreciation, sliding his hands beneath the rucked up t-shirt to run them along the curve of John’s spine. John trails a line of kisses up his neck before finally licking into his mouth and oh, it’s incandescent, this feeling of being drawn towards consciousness by the promise of John, of being touched and loved. He notes that his sleepy mind has become nauseatingly sentimental. Well, as long as no one finds out. Ever.  

 

“You’re just as gorgeous together as I imagined,” Mary sighs, her voice sleep-rough and fond. “Uninhibited is a good look on you, Sherlock,” she adds, reaching out to run her fingers through his hair.

 

Sherlock smiles into the kiss before turning to look at her. “Voyeur,” he smirks.

 

“Exhibitionist,” she replies with a teasing grin of her own. “Though, I may need more data to properly deduce your tendencies,” she adds with a wink.  

 

Sherlock tilts his head into her palm. “I approve of your scientific mind. Let’s keep her, John. So, what would you suggest as a first experiment?” He slides his hands down to grip John’s arse and rocks his hips teasingly.

 

John instinctively grinds down into the friction before growling in frustration. “No, just hang on a minute. You two may be fine diving right into this thing, but I’d feel much better if we could talk things out a bit so I know what’s okay. Or not okay. Or just...am I the only one feeling a bit like we’ve gone off the edge of the map here?”

 

Mary starts giggling, and then claps her hand over her mouth and tries to look serious. “I’m sorry. Yes, you’re right, we should talk. I just thought ‘here be monsters’ and my mind went straight to a dirty place, because you know, one-eyed monsters...I’m done now,” she promises, looking only mildly repentant.

 

John snorts and rolls off of Sherlock to flop between them again. “I knew I loved you for a reason.” He leans over to kiss her playfully. “So. Where do we start?”

 

“I wanted to start by getting you naked,” Sherlock huffs. A peek over at John’s genuinely uncertain face silences any further griping. But still. _Talking_. He’s done more talking over the past few days than the past few years, and quite frankly he’s a bit over it. The fact that logically he knows they need to talk about this doesn’t make him any more thrilled to do it. “Fine. Let Mary start. She’s clearly the brains behind this whole threesome thing. It was her idea after all.”

 

“It wasn’t _my_ idea. You two idiots were thinking it, I was just the one brave enough to suggest it,” she argues, propping herself up on one elbow so she can see both of them.

 

“Yes fine, we’re idiots,” John agrees. “Now how does this work? I mean, obviously I like living with you, and sex with you, and I like living with Sherlock and sex with him,” he says, his tone slightly hesitant, as if he’s still uncertain he’s allowed to say such things, “but you two have no idea if you can even stand living together and as for sex, well…”

 

Mary considers for a moment. “So really, you’re worried because you’re in love with both of us and you’re afraid things might fall apart because we’re not in love with each other, or jumping over you to fuck each other. Meanwhile, you and he managed to be irritatingly happy for years without sex. Or any of the actual benefits of being in love.”

 

John blinks at her in surprise, and Sherlock grins. She really is brilliant. “I don’t know, I’m suddenly questioning that first point. And you did imply you’d like using that strap-on, and I’m intrigued by the idea as well.”

 

“I’d say I was generally more irritated than irritatingly happy,” John counters as he elbows Sherlock playfully. “But- do you even like women? I mean, sexually?”

 

Sherlock shrugs. “Not generally, no. But I’m not repulsed by the idea either. I’m rather curious, actually, about how the female orgasm works. I’d like to run some experiments. And I’m certain I’ll be able to spot all sorts of things you’ve mistakenly decided she likes but she’s just too nice to tell you you’re wrong. _I’m_ not too nice.”

 

“Hey! She thinks I’m good in bed. Mary, you think I’m good in bed don’t you?” John protests.

 

“Moustache,” Sherlock deadpans.

 

“You’re very good in bed, John. But everyone could use a few pointers…” Mary trails off suggestively.

 

“I’m sure I’ll have a few things to enlighten you about as well, Mary,” Sherlock points out.

 

Her smile falters a bit. “Damn. Well, I suppose that’s fair. At least you’re enough of an arse you’ll just tell us when we get something wrong about your preferences,” she says with a poke to Sherlock’s side.

 

“Obviously,” Sherlock replies, rolling his eyes. “Are we done talking now?”

 

“Seriously? That sorted out almost nothing,” John counters.

 

“Well what do you want sorted then? Sides of the bed? Who sleeps in the middle? How to deal with a fight? Who does the dishes? _What?_ Most of this we’re going to have to figure out as we go. Can’t we just discuss issues as they come up?” Sherlock asks in exasperation.

 

“I don’t know!” John exclaims. “I just-” he grabs both of their hands and holds them tight. “A week ago I had no idea I could have this, and now you’re both telling me I can- we can- and I need you to be sure. I need you both to be sure about this because I can’t go back to life without either of you. I need this to work. I need to know you aren’t going to change your minds. That you won’t let me have this and then take it away because you don’t- you can’t-”

 

Mary cuts him off with a kiss. “You don’t trust us. I get that. I get that we need to earn it back, and we will, I swear. But I’m not changing my mind. I get Sherlock, and I like him very much. I like how happy you are when he’s around. And he’s no you, but still I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers so I’m thinking the sex thing won’t be a problem.” She gives Sherlock an encouraging smile and a wink. “If he’s really interested and hasn’t just been teasing, that is.”

 

Sherlock looks over at John’s hopeful smile before replying. “I admit I don’t feel sexual arousal at the idea of sex with you, or kissing you. In fact, I rather feel more comfortable with the idea of performing cunnilingus than kissing you. Likely because I’m curious, and I know John would enjoy watching us. Possibly because kissing feels somehow even more intimate, and I may need to gradually move towards that level of comfort with you. The idea of the strap-on, if used while I’m pleasuring John, does excite me. I think it has to do with knowing I’m….” he considers for a moment, wondering how to phrase it.

 

“You don’t need to be embarrassed to tell us,” Mary says gently. “I think rule number one is we need to feel comfortable telling each other anything, and know we won’t be demeaned for our desires.”

 

“Good,” John finishes. “You want to feel like you’re good for us. Ours. That you’re making us happy. And you like to hear it.” He turns to kiss Sherlock lightly.

 

Sherlock nods, trying to slow his pulse and the knee-jerk reaction of fear that he’ll be rejected. Aside from his family, only Victor and John have ever treated him like he was truly desired. Truly worthy of affection.

 

“So your love languages are primarily words of affirmation and physical touch,” Mary observes. “I can definitely work with that.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. He’s relieved, but his immediate reaction is still to be a bit of a dickhead. “Ah yes, John said you had him read some self-help book.”   

 

Mary refuses to take the bait. “It’s a good book, and it’s helpful to know these kinds of things. Mine is quality time just like John, just so you know. So neither of us is likely to get sick of being around you, just in case you were wondering,” she adds with a smile.

 

“Oh. Well that’s good then,” Sherlock allows. “I don’t intend to live in this flat while you live in another.”

 

“Christ, we have to figure out where to live as well,” John groans.

 

“Not today we don’t, love,” Mary says. “Let’s just start slowly. For now we can stay here.”

 

“I suppose at this point, sorting out how we’re going to get your file back and take Magnussen out of the picture ranks well above living accommodations,” John agrees.

 

Now it’s Sherlock’s turn to groan. He suspects his brain is actually starting to hurt from all of this conversation. They need it, he knows, but that doesn’t make him feel any more anxious for it at the moment. “So much talking! Can we not with the talking for a while? This is getting unreasonable. Do you not remember the thing about my sometimes not speaking for days at a time?!”

 

“I think you broke him, John,” Mary comments, reaching over to pet Sherlock’s stomach soothingly. “So you need a break from serious conversation?”

 

“Please,” Sherlock implores, fixing her with his best pleading look. He smiles inwardly when she visibly softens.

 

“I know you’re manipulating me with those puppy eyes, darling. But you’re right, it’s not as if we need to sort that out right now. How about we just focus on getting more comfortable with each other for a while?”

 

“Excellent!” Sherlock grins and sits up long enough to strip off his sleep shirt. Then he half-rolls, half-climbs over John and wriggles between them. He decides he may as well throw caution to the wind and nuzzles into Mary’s neck. “I’m sure I’d be more comfortable if you were both to be topless as well.”

 

Mary laughs. “I do love how direct you are. John, do you mind?”

 

John looks at them with the expression of a man who’s just won the lottery. “I can already tell you two are going to be very nearly more than I can handle, but I may as well get used to it. Just...everyone agree to speak up if you’re uncomfortable, yeah?”

 

“Yes good, now less clothing and more skin please,” Sherlock agrees, tugging at the hem of John’s shirt.

 

“He’s making up for years of not being touched nearly enough,” John explains as he pulls his shirt over his head.

 

“I can tell,” Mary nods as Sherlock hums and arches into the hand she drags lightly down his sternum.  “No, you’re lovely,” she assures as Sherlock tenses fractionally. “I had no idea you’d be like this. So responsive. But I’m glad you are.” She unbuttons her shirt and slides it off. “Bra as well?”

 

Sherlock turns onto his side and faces her, melting immediately back into John’s chest as he spoons up behind. “Breasts don’t alarm me. I’ve simply never been terribly attracted to them, but I’m curious about yours. Are they at all tender? Do I need to be careful? I’ve read pregnancy can make a woman’s breasts feel sore.”

 

Mary smiles as she wriggles out of her bra. “You’re sweet for being concerned, but at this point they’re fine. We’ll see how I feel when they start to get bigger as I get closer to term.”

 

Sherlock cocks his head and just examines Mary’s torso for a few moments before reaching out to trail one finger from her clavicle down to encircle her left nipple and then brush over it. “Well apparently they’re just as sensitive as a man’s,” he notes as the pinkish flesh hardens. He rolls it gently between his thumb and pointer finger and looks quickly up to her face when she sucks in a breath. “You like this.”

 

“Obviously,” she replies, rolling her eyes teasingly. “Feel free to explore all you like.”

 

John props himself up on his elbow and he stretches his free hand out to run it along the curve of her hip. “Yes do,” he murmurs, kissing Sherlock’s shoulder.

 

“It’s only fair, he’s had you all to himself for a few days,” Mary encourages.

 

Emboldened by their encouragement, Sherlock scoots forward a bit and reaches out to cup her breast as he licks his way up and across her nipple. “Your skin is softer than John’s. You taste different as well.” He closes his lips over the hardened nub and sucks lightly. There’s something satisfying about it, soothing. Not exactly like sucking a cock, but his body’s visceral reaction is similar. “I’m sure Freud would have something to say about my enjoyment of this,” he comments before resuming his experiment. He varies his suction and plays with opening his mouth wider to reach more surface area versus nibbling on the clearly sensitive flesh. It’s interesting. Not exactly sexually arousing, but pleasing all the same.

 

“Sod Freud, just keep doing that,” Mary encourages, her fingers tangling in Sherlock’s hair. “I love this. John’s hair is never quite long enough to get a good grip on.”

 

“That’s because his long hair looks sexy while mine just makes me look homeless,” John points out, snuggling up even closer and running his hand over Sherlock’s stomach. “And fuck, but you two look- just, fuck.”

 

Sherlock pulls away to John and ask, “So you’re not feeling jealous? Upset?”

 

John gives Sherlock a slow kiss. “Lucky,” he states honestly.

 

“Hey, it’s my turn,” Mary complains good-naturedly, using her grip on Sherlock’s hair to guide him back.

 

“She’s rather demanding in bed,” John remarks, giving her a wink.

 

Sherlock turns back to Mary and begins palming her breast curiously. “I like demanding in bed. There’s no confusion that way. Are these really comfortable? They just kind of hang there.” He cocks his head and lifts her breast up, then lets it drop. Its motion is rather mesmerising, he has to admit.

 

Mary laughs. “Are your balls comfortable? They just kind of hang there as well, bumping around between your legs all the time. At least these stay in place with a good bra.”

 

Sherlock considers the comparison. “Hmmm. I’ve never found my testicles to be distracting, unless I focus on them. I imagine it’s like when you realize you can see your nose, and it bothers you until you stop focusing on it again.”

 

Mary looks down for a moment and then groans. “Shit, that’s going to bug me now. Make me focus on something else,” she encourages teasingly, “this is all your fault.”

 

Sherlock scoots further down her torso in reply, licking and sucking at the soft skin of her stomach and memorizing the varied textures. He turns and presses his ear below her navel, listening even though he knows she’s not far enough along for him to discern a separate heartbeat. “I’ve not had a chance to observe a pregnancy closely. It’s incredible, what your body is capable of. Your very organs and joints are shifting, all to make room for a parasitic organism your body will expel before it manages to kill you. Fascinating.”

 

John smacks Sherlock’s stomach. “You’re not helping me feel any better about this you know!”

 

Sherlock snorts. “I’m merely stating the facts, John.”

 

“He’s fine,” Mary assures. “At any rate, he’s correct. No need to sugar coat it. But no fair having all kinds of sex while I’m still too sore after she’s born! Unless you’re willing to do all the dishes and laundry. And change diapers. And let me watch,” she amends thoughtfully.

 

“I’m sure we can work something out,” Sherlock replies. “I’ve been known to go days without sleeping, so I’m sure I can help when she’s up in the night. And I can play my violin for her, surely that’s soothing. I can start now, actually. I’ve read babies can become familiar with sounds in utero. That way once she’s born, she’ll have a way of recognizing me.”

 

Mary blinks down at him for a moment, and then pulls him up for a hug. “Damn my hormones, I’m never this emotional. But that’s one of the sweetest things I’ve ever heard.”

 

John reaches over Sherlock to join in the embrace. “I don’t even have her excuse, I’m just not used to you saying things like that. Just think what Mycroft would say.”

 

Sherlock tries to will a blush down and squirms in their arms. Even though he’s thrilled to have pleased them, he’s still embarrassed at his own sentimentality. “Fine, I’ll go back to being the arse you’re used to. Tell Mycroft and I won’t have sex with you for a month,” he threatens.

 

“Is that so?” John asks, nipping the back of Sherlock’s neck and wriggling his hand down into the front of the loose cotton bottoms to play with the coarse curls he encounters.

 

Sherlock arches back into John without thinking, and then huffs. “You’re distracting me from my exploration of your wife’s body. Mary, tell him to behave.”

 

“Surely you’ve noticed it’s not that simple,” she points out. “You need to go with something more appealing than a reprimand. Like...John, be a dear and distract yourself with Sherlock’s arse so he can go back to making my fantasies come true.”

 

Sherlock quirks a brow at her. “There are fantasies?”

 

“After all of those suggestive texts and imagining you and John fucking? Hell yes, there are fantasies.” She pushes at Sherlock’s shoulders.

 

“I want to hear them,” John grins as he scoots back to give Sherlock room to move where he wants.

 

“Yes, do tell,” Sherlock smirks as he obligingly kisses his way down her neck and then all the way to the waistband of her trousers. He pauses to look up at her as he runs his tongue along the material. He can figure out what she likes on his own, he’s certain, but he suspects John’s enjoyment of dirty talk extends to Mary as well.

 

She reaches a hand down to tangle in his hair again. “I’ve been wondering what that clever mouth of yours, and those deductive powers, could do to my cunt. If you’re comfortable finding out, that is,” she adds sincerely.  

 

Sherlock finds that he is. From what he understands about the female orgasm, it’s a rather more complicated thing than the male orgasm. And he always did love a challenge. Also, he suspects John will like both watching and kissing her taste out of his mouth when he’s finished. “I am. Seeing as I’ve never done this before, I’m likely to get distracted by filing away new data. Just push me away when you’ve had enough,” he smirks.

 

“Full marks for confidence,” Mary laughs as she rolls onto her back and Sherlock begins unbuttoning her trousers.

 

“I’m not sure even his arse is going to distract me from this,” John says as he sits up and watches Sherlock drag her trousers and pants off.

 

“Bored of my arse already?” Sherlock teases as he finally settles on kneeling, and then leaning forward to rest his weight on his elbows so he can card the fingers of both hands through the light brown curls between her spread legs. His mind is busy cataloging all of the fascinating new information, so he’s silent at first.

 

_I was right of course, not a natural blonde. Recently trimmed hair_. He runs his thumbs slowly down her labia majora, pressing lightly. _Not terribly sensitive_. He brings both thumbs to his mouth and sucks on them for a moment before using them to better examine her labia minora. _Pink with a hint of purple, plump, slightly damp with arousal. Hips shifting, heightened breathing. She likes this._ _Unfamiliar scent, nothing like John’s arousal. Pleasing._ He gently exposes the glans of her clitoris. _Twice as many nerve endings as the penis. Pink, shiny, pulsing._

 

Mary can’t reach his hair anymore, so she settles for running her hands along his forearms. “My fantasy involved far more up-close and personal discovery,” she encourages. “Though that intense look on your face is rather hot, I have to admit.”

 

“It is,” John agrees when all Sherlock does is hum noncommittally and suck on his pointer finger to circle it lightly around her vaginal opening. “I’ll play with his arse later, I’d rather get a good view of this.” He slips around behind her and pulls her up to lean against his chest so he can nibble at her ear and tease at her nipples while he watches.

 

Sherlock looks up at them with what he suspects is a frighteningly revealing look of awe mixed with gratitude. They look so comfortable with each other, and to be allowed to have this- to have John, and Mary as well- he never imagined he could be this...damn the sentiment of it all, this happy. “Well then I guess I’d best make certain I keep your interest,” he rumbles as he settles onto his stomach and scoots closer to slide his arms beneath Mary’s thighs and cup her arse.

 

“You have mine,” she breathes, carding her fingers through Sherlock’s hair again. “You’re already amazing. And hot as hell. Damn, he has an amazing arse, John.”

 

“He does,” John agrees, reaching down to lace the fingers of his left hand with hers in the tangle of Sherlock’s curls.

 

Sherlock feels a rush of pleasure at their compliments and is suddenly even more eager to do a good job, despite never having attempted this before. He starts by burying his nose in the damp curls and inhaling deeply, his mind busy attempting to catalogue the new scent. Rather than starting slowly, he dips his tongue in as low as he can reach and licks all the way up and over her clit. She bucks into the pressure and whines, and Sherlock looks up at her with a sense of accomplishment. He licks his lips and rolls her taste around in his mouth. “I prefer John’s scent, but your taste,” he declares.

 

Mary huffs out a half-laugh. “That’s because semen tastes horrible.”

 

“Hey!” John interjects, before considering a moment. “Okay yeah, that’s fair.”

 

Mary lifts her hips encouragingly. “So to solve that problem, you should both probably make sure your mouths tastes like me before sucking eachother off. I’m only thinking of your own pleasure, really. I’m selfless like that.” She gives Sherlock a teasing wink.

 

Sherlock kisses her thigh, just because he can. “I can’t wait for you to start solving cases with us. Your mind works in fascinating ways.” He cuts off whatever reply she was going to make by leaning in to flick the tip of his tongue lightly over her clit for a few moments before running the flat of his tongue over it with more force, and then doing his best to suck on it. It’s definitely far more complicated than sucking John off. There are just so many possibilities. He determines she likes the longer strokes best, so he goes back to that for a while. She squirms more when he digs his fingers into her arse, so he does that as well.  

 

After a few minutes he has to pull back for a break, and he looks up at where she and John are kissing rather urgently. The sight makes his stomach flutter. “My tongue is tired. I can’t say that’s ever happened to me before.” He works his jaw, trying to stretch the muscles. “And my jaw aches. I’m going to need far more practice. Did you have to work up some sort of stamina for this, John?” he asks curiously.

 

John smiles down at him, his hair wonderfully mussed and his lips slick. “Pretty much, yeah. But she’s so much fun to go down on. You make such lovely noises, don’t you love?” John asks, kissing her.

 

“Fuck. I’ll make any noises you want if Sherlock doesn’t stop. I’m close, I swear darling,” she pants, looking at Sherlock with a desperate expression. “You’re amazing. I love it.”

 

“You want something,” Sherlock states, looking at her closely. “Tell me.”

 

“Well I don’t want- not if you don’t- but if you were to put two fingers inside of me I’d be in heaven.”

 

“Oh. I wasn’t certain you’d want me to,” Sherlock admits, cursing the way his deductive abilities go haywire where women are concerned. He cocks his head, considers angles for a moment, and then slips his right hand out to seek out John’s left. “Show me,” he suggests, hoping he’s correct in assuming this will be okay.

 

John’s eyes widen when the implication hits. “Oh, fuck yes,” he replies. “She can take three, and this will be easier,” he says as he reaches down to tease at her with his middle and pointer fingers to wet them, before slipping them gently inside.

 

Mary’s head drops back against John’s shoulder as she bucks her hips. “God that’s good. Sherlock, please.”

 

John spreads his fingers slightly and Sherlock takes the hint, flipping his hand palm-up and carefully sliding his pointer finger between them. It’s shockingly intimate. He keeps his eyes locked on John’s and follows along with the motion of John’s fingers, and it’s like nothing he’s ever felt before. The physical sensation of Mary’s body: her warmth and softness, the way her body tightens, and flutters around their fingers. But also, the feeling of connection. Of being accepted. Wanted.

 

As soon as John reaches down with his other hand to rub his fingers gently over her clit, Mary begins to squirm and buck, and then freezes completely. Sherlock marvels at how tightly she clamps down around their fingers, how he can feel the pulses of her orgasm. He’s hard by now, but he suspects it’s due to the thrill of John’s obvious arousal and the thought of how much Mary is enjoying this than the actual act of pleasuring her. He slides his finger out along with John’s, and sucks on it curiously. Yes, definitely better than semen.

 

Mary arches and stretches languidly, her breathing slowly returning to normal. “So, what did you think?” she asks, stroking Sherlock’s hair. “I know I enjoyed it.”

 

He looks up at her and can’t help smiling in return. “It was an experience I wouldn’t mind repeating. I’ve never seen a woman post-orgasm. You look...like all the ridiculous poetic words, I suppose. John, should I tell her she’s incandescent or something? I suppose you tell her things like that.”

 

John and Mary exchange an amused look, and then she laughs. “I’m relieved you’re still you, even in bed. But you don’t have to tell me anything- I’m not expecting you to act any certain way. How we are with each other is going to be different than how John is with me, or you with him. And speaking of you with him…” She slides out from between them and urges John back to lean against the headboard.

 

“Are you in charge then?” John asks teasingly before yelping in surprise and banging his head when she suddenly yanks his trousers and pants off.

 

“Apparently,” Sherlock observes, with a thrill of excitement. Now _this_ is interesting. Unpredictable. “And what would you have me do?”

 

Mary lays a hand on his shoulder. “I’d like to watch you suck him off. And I’d like to get you used to my touch. I won’t make you come, I’ll leave that for John. Just tell me if I make you uncomfortable.”

 

Sherlock nods and crawls towards John, mesmerized by the look of awe and desire in his eyes. He settles back into a kneeling position and reaches out to run one finger from the base of John’s cock up to the tip. “If you want to watch, perhaps you should tell me what you’d like to see,” he suggests, giving Mary a challenging look. He’s curious what she’ll come up with, and the idea of being directed how to pleasure John is far from uncomfortable. Though he has to admit that even though his mouth still tastes like her, he isn’t sure he’d be entirely comfortable with her bringing him to orgasm. He’s glad she understands, as it will make relaxing into her touch far easier.  

 

She smiles and moves to sit beside him. “Oh, I think I can manage that. First, just use your hands. Gently, since you don’t have lube. He likes it just this side of too rough.”

 

Sherlock does as she instructs, biting back an instinctive “I know” and reaching out to stroke John lightly with his right fist. He keeps his eyes fixed on John’s, and hums appreciatively when Mary begins running her hands soothingly around his back and chest, down his thigh, and back up again. There doesn’t seem to be any pattern, and it’s incongruously calming.

 

John doesn’t seem to know where to look: down at Sherlock’s hand on his cock or up at them. “Fuck but you two look gorgeous together. If I’m dreaming, don’t you fucking dare wake me.”

 

“Sherlock, I think we need to prove he’s awake,” Mary muses before leaning in to nuzzle at his ear. “I don’t think a pinch sounds terribly nice though. Perhaps a light scraping of your teeth over the head of his cock,” she whispers into his ear, her eyes fixed on John.

 

Sherlock obeys immediately, shuffling back a bit so he can lean down and guide John’s erection between his lips. He does as he’s told and drags his teeth oh-so-lightly over the glans and meatus. He kisses the tip and grins at the strangled cry it elicits.

 

“That was perfect. You’re lovely like this,” Mary praises, reaching out to hold the base of John’s erection steady. “I’ll help with this so you can grab his arse like you did mine. You liked the feeling of being held down a bit, didn’t you?”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock acknowledges, looking at John. “It’s not exactly being tied up, but it’s a good start,” he smirks.

 

“You’d trust me with that?” Mary asks, her tone one of grateful surprise.

 

Sherlock leans his head against John’s thigh to look over at her. “When it comes to something that will make John happy, I trust you implicitly. I imagine you feel much the same about me.”

 

Mary leans down to give Sherlock a kiss on the cheek. “I’m so sorry we didn’t sort things out months ago. I should’ve trusted you from the start. And John.”

 

Sherlock huffs. “It’s illogical to dwell on the past, Mary. And you said we could be done talking about things like that for now,” he adds pointedly.

 

“Right,” John interjects, pushing his hips forward encouragingly. “Besides, you were rather in the middle of something weren’t you?”   

 

"Impatient are you?" Mary purrs, visibly pulling herself back into the moment. She presses lightly against the back of Sherlock's neck and he shivers as his his lips close around the corona of John's cock. "Looks like you’re not the only one. Damn but you look good together. Slowly Sherlock, l want to give us plenty of time to enjoy this."

 

"Use your nails. He loves being scratched," John pants as Sherlock's hands slide beneath his thighs to grip his arse firmly.

 

Mary responds by dragging the nails of her free left hand down Sherlock's spine, making a happy noise when he hums in appreciation around his mouthful and arches catlike into her touch. "That's lovely Sherlock. You’re so beautifully responsive. John loves it as well, just feel how his cock jumps when you make noise."

 

Mary leaves a trail of light pink lines down Sherlock's side and he whimpers, giving himself over to the combined bliss of the erection sliding oh so gently into his throat and the addictive sting that leaves his skin tingling. It grounds him, keeps his mind focused. John's fingers slide into his hair and grip it tightly, and it's indescribable how good it is. It strikes him that he hadn’t realized how much he needed this, and the having is both terrifying and incredible at the same time.

 

"That's it. Now suck a bit harder and swirl your tongue around more, but don't go any faster." Mary continues scratching and petting, and then slides her hand gently down Sherlock's stomach and lightly over his bobbing erection. "Is this okay? I'll be gentle, I’m still saving you for John."

 

Sherlock can only nod slightly and make what he hopes is an affirmative noise. His normally sharp mind is barely keeping up with the onslaught of new data. John is hot and insistent in his mouth, and he can taste and smell both of them, and the hands in his hair are cautiously forceful. John is uttering praise and encouragement, and Mary's hand is smaller and softer than he’s ever experienced. Just as with her scratching and petting, even the light strokes along his erection are somehow more soothing than arousing.

 

Sherlock finds himself wanting it to go on forever, despite his neck and knees beginning to ache. It can’t though, of course it can’t, and too soon he’s swallowing as John bucks and swears. Then he’s being pulled up to straddle John’s lap and John is kissing him fiercely and gripping his erection firmly and oh, maybe this is just as good. He dimly registers Mary’s arms wrapping around his chest and the unfamiliar sensation of her breasts against his back, but most of his focus is on how close he is to his own orgasm and the tang of blood as John bites his lip and growls into his mouth. When he comes, it feels like falling.

 

The next thing that registers properly is the sensation of a warm cloth cleaning up his chest and stomach, and then the sound of John’s heartbeat beneath his ear. His eyes are closed, and he’s nearly afraid to open them despite the fingers carding through his hair. What if he did that wrong? No, he can’t have. John clearly enjoyed it, as did Mary. And they’re both still here as those are definitely John’s arms holding him close. This is unacceptable. He doesn’t think things like this. Ridiculous, sentimental things, like wondering if they decided he was good enough to keep. “John?” He grits his teeth mentally when it comes out pitched as a question.

 

“Hey,” John says fondly. “Still with us? Sorry I bit you, is your lip okay?”

 

“He means, ‘I love you Sherlock and you were perfect and yes we definitely want this,’” Mary says, an eye roll audible in her tone.

 

“Oh. Right, that’s what I meant,” John amends quickly. He tips Sherlock’s chin up to look him in the eyes. “I love the hell out of you, and I wouldn’t give this up for anything. Promise.”

 

“Obviously,” Sherlock huffs, relief flooding through him. “You don’t need to get all sappy on me.”

 

“You love it,” John declares.

 

Sherlock simply hums noncommittally and tucks his head back under John’s chin.  

 

“Oh no, don’t even try to pretend. You can’t get enough of my cheesy lines.” He reaches down to tickle Sherlock’s sides. “I need you like air. Forever isn’t nearly long enough to spend with you,” he croons in a dramatic voice.

 

“You’re the wind beneath my wings, darling,” Mary adds before sneaking down to attempt tickling his feet.

 

Sherlock manages to hold back a laugh for a few seconds before he begins squirming and laughing- it’s _definitely not_ anything remotely akin to a giggle. “I hate you both,” he manages, wondering if it is indeed possible to die from happiness and damn, apparently the horrible lines have affected his own mind because who _thinks_ things like that?  

 

“He’s adorable like this John. Sherlock, I had no idea you could be this...cute. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. I like it,” Mary concludes brightly.

 

A knock at the door has them all jumping in surprise and John scrambling ineffectively for the edge of the sheet in an attempt to cover them up. A moment later Victor opens the door and takes a single step inside, one hand clapped firmly over his eyes. “Alright you sex-crazed lunatics, it’s time to come out for something to eat. You need to keep your energy up. Also, I’m getting bored by myself and I’m ready to hear all the smutty details,” he adds with a suggestive grin. “But mostly, I’ve come up with a brilliant plan. Well, not exactly me, but I’m in the process of working out how I can take some of the credit. So put on some clothes. Or you know, don’t. Either way is okay with me. Hope you all like Chinese take out!”  He waves with his free hand and then closes the door behind him.

 

They look at each other for a few moments before John shrugs and says, “Well it can hardly be worse than either of _your_ plans. We may as well hear him out. Plus, I am hungry.”

 

“I’d argue, but yeah...you have a point,” Mary agrees. “I for one am putting on clothes though.”

 

“Best not encourage him,” Sherlock nods as he reluctantly sits up. He watches John and Mary helping each other find their clothes for a few moments before Mary winks at him and tosses him his own shirt. Oddly, it makes his stomach do a little flip. He stands and stretches, watching as two sets of eyes follow his movements appreciatively. “I’m changing out there,” he declares. “May as well give Victor a little something for his part in all of this.” He picks up his clothes and struts out the door. It has nothing to do with the fact that if he stayed in that room he would be tempted to just drag them back to bed. Even though he knows leaving means _talking_ is about to happen, he suddenly wants it. He wants the Magnussen situation taken care of so John and Mary are safe because he cannot lose them.   

 

Victor gives a teasing wolf whistle as soon as Sherlock walks into the kitchen.

 

“Shut it Victor, and tell me this plan is going to work,” he orders as he pulls on his shirt.

 

Victor sobers immediately and sets his mobile on the table, pushing it towards Sherlock. “Oh, it’s going to work. And if you don’t trust _me,_ something tells me you’re going to trust _her_.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much, lovely reader, for continuing to read this despite the slowed posting schedule! I will definitely finish this, it's just a case of real life on this side of the laptop screen I'm afraid. This chapter is mostly plot and dialogue. Remind me never to write a scene with five characters in it ever again because damn that's a lot to keep track of...I do hope you enjoy it!
> 
> A million thanks, as always, to the best friend and beta reader ever, Hedwig-Dordt!

Ch. 13

 

Sherlock looks at the mobile on the table and just _knows_. He rolls his eyes and pulls on his trousers before picking it up. She would find a way to get involved. Of course Victor hadn’t been able to resist answering a call from a phone found hidden in the skull. Clearly he should’ve just let the battery run out. Or put it on silent. Sentiment will be the end of him he decides as he picks it up, unlocks it, and goes to the inbox. He calls the unfamiliar number on the message that reads simply, “Still not dead either, then?”

 

 _Sherlock, darling. It really has been too long_ , Irene lilts as soon as she answers. _Shame on you for not telling me you were alive. Though seeing as you didn’t tell Victor either I feel slightly less put out. He’s a dear, we’ve had_ such _an interesting conversation._

 

“Irene,” Sherlock acknowledges, uncertain whether to be pleased she’s still interested in him or irritated that she’s interfering with his affairs. “And what _has_ Victor been telling you,” he growls, narrowing his eyes at his friend. His entirely unrepentant, smirking friend.

 

_Oh, all sorts of things. That you’ve finally admitted you’re madly in love with John, for starters. Also that as of an hour ago you were happily indulging in a bit of naked fun with both him and his new wife, the ex-assassin who shot you. From what I’ve been able to discover, she sounds like just the woman for you. I’m intrigued, truly I am. Did you get my rose, by the way?_

 

Sherlock flops into a chair and continues to glower at Victor. It continues to be ineffective. “I received a number of flowers so what makes you think I’d pay any special attention to yours? Incidentally, I’ve never seen the point of surrounding a sick person with the decay of dying plants. I’m not entirely positive watching the inevitable fading of cut flowers conveys the message the sender intends.”

 

 _Ah, so you did notice_ , Irene gloats, ignoring the rest of his rant.

 

“Get to the point. What can you possibly want from me now? I’ve already saved your life.”

 

_I’m aware. And now I can repay the favor. Besides, this is going to be such fun. Now, are John and Mary in the room?_

“They’re still getting dressed. Why? John believes you’re dead, though he told me you were in witness protection. I’m not certain how he’ll handle another ‘not dead’ revelation. He never was your biggest fan to begin with.” Damn, looks like there’s no way to end this conversation before John finds out yet another thing he’s neglected to tell him. Surely even John’s forgiving nature has limits.  

 

_That’s because he was jealous of your attention. Now that he knows you’re his, I’m certain we’ll get along far better. Besides, I’ve no intention of actually showing up there. Or holding this conversation more than once, so let’s do this the easy way, shall we?_

Sherlock startles when Victor’s laptop, which is facing away from him, emits a loud tone for an incoming video call. He rolls his eyes as Victor hits a button and turns the screen towards him with a flourish. Irene is lounging on a pile of pillows against a headboard and wearing only a black silk robe. She’s visible from the waist up, and he deduces her laptop must be resting on some sort of breakfast tray in front of her. “And John says I’m a drama queen,” he comments snidely.

 

“Who’s a drama- You have got to be _fucking_ kidding me!” John cries as he comes up behind Sherlock’s chair.

 

Sherlock winces. This situation is definitely a bit not good. “Ah.Yes. This is- well, it’s a rather amusing story truthfully, and-”

 

“ _To make a long story short, not dead either. Hello John! Hello John’s lovely, deadly wife!_ ”  Irene waves and blows a kiss, her eyes projecting clear amusement.

 

Mary’s gaze flicks between Sherlock and the screen for a few moments before she rests her hands possessively on his shoulders and narrows her eyes. “Who the hell are you, and what do you want with us?”

 

Irene laughs. _“Oh Sherlock, I can see why you like her. I’m Miss Adler, and I want to help you. So pleased to meet you. Well, in a manner of speaking.”_

 

“Irene Adler. I made a short blog post about her case. She’s meant to be dead,” John adds, still sounding off-balance.

 

Mary thinks for a moment. “Right, something about a witness protection scheme and Sherlock not being okay with it. Wait, why is she meant to be dead?”

 

Sherlock huffs in irritation, wanting to get to the actual point of her call. “Because Mycroft told John she’d been killed, but they decided to tell me she was in witness protection so I wouldn’t be upset. Sentimental sods, both of them. I knew she was alive because I was there to save her life. Though she really is in America, so that part you got right John. Before you ask, I wasn’t really lounging about the place doing nothing when you went to that conference in Wales. Now can we move on?”

 

John drags a chair over to sit next to Sherlock, and Mary shifts around to sit on his lap and drape one thigh over Sherlock’s. Sherlock relaxes at the casual intimacy.

 

Victor drags another chair around to Sherlock’s free side. “This is all very exciting. If I knew things were this much fun here I’d have come back to visit you far sooner.” He leans forward on his elbows and rests his chin on his hands as he watches the screen. “What?” he asks at the three matching looks of _‘really right now_?’ “Blackmail, people faking their own deaths, polyamory, an evil bad guy, and a dominatrix? Even HBO couldn’t come up with this!”

 

“Ignore him,” Sherlock says to Irene, rolling his eyes.

 

“ _But he’s so pretty! Besides, I like him_ ,” Irene declares. _“I fully expect to be invited to dinner once he’s back in New York. He’s already told me some delicious stories about you two_ ,” she adds with a smirk.

 

“Well you three were taking too long! We had to talk about _something,_ ” Victor points out unrepentantly.

 

“Moving on,” John interjects, clearly not taking this as lightly as Victor or Irene. “How do you think you can help us?”

 

“ _Magnussen. I know what he likes.”_

 

John grimaces. “Ew.”

 

 _“You do realize that domination doesn’t have to involve sex,_ ” Irene says, as if she’s explaining gravity to a five-year-old. “ _And I do like a challenge, as Sherlock is well aware.”_

 

Mary stretches the hand that was draped over John’s shoulder out to wrap it lightly around the back of Sherlock’s neck and begin running her thumb in soothing circles. “And this is relevant how?”

 

_“Because he didn’t pay me in money, he paid me in secrets. He had a copy of my client list, showed it to me before our first session and then burned it. I’ve still no idea how he acquired it. Possibly one name at a time, from my clients themselves. He told me it was safely in his memory, where I could never get it back. So I suppose he told me secrets because he felt it was mutually assured destruction, though everyone needs a confidant. But I died, so he stopped worrying about controlling me.”_

 

“So you think we can blackmail him to release my files?” Mary asks, her tone clearly unconvinced.

 

_“Nothing so simple I’m afraid. But first I need you to understand something. You may be a special case, since Moriarty giving Magnussen a jump drive with your history on it is just his type of petty revenge. Mary, do you know he has the drive?”_

 

“He must. The drive I have- well, that John has now- was the one Moriarty sent me, telling me he’d given Magnussen a copy. What do you mean I’m a special case?”

 

“ _Because there is no truth to the rumors of a room full of secrets in Appledore. There’s nothing there at all. Nothing for the police to find and convict him, nothing to steal back. He showed me once, when he was in a particularly...compliant mood. There’s an empty closet with a chair in it, where the supposed door down to the vaults is. That’s all.”_

 

Sherlock sits up straighter, connections falling rapidly into place. “Oh. Oh! Of course. Yes, of course. There was no Google glass. Stupid, stupid!” He smacks his forehead and looks at the others, growling at their confused looks. “Mind palace! He has a mind palace!”

 

John frowns. “So he doesn’t actually have anything in terms of proof for what he’s got on people?”

 

Irene shrugs. _“Why would he need it? He controls the media. All he would have to do is print ‘Prime Minister suspected of shagging a goat’ for the man’s reputation to be ruined. I can’t be certain he didn’t keep the drive though, especially if he thought it could help him finally own Mycroft.”_

 

“This is about Mycroft?!” John growls.

 

“ _He’s wanted to own Mycroft for years, and I’m guessing he figures owning her means owning you, and Magnussen knows you’re Sherlock’s pressure point. And Sherlock is his best way to Mycroft, since he’s big brother’s pressure point.”_  

 

“It does make sense,” Sherlock admits. “I’ve already offered him the deal he was expecting, actually, which could work in our favor.”

 

“Wait, what? What deal?” John looks at Sherlock suspiciously.

 

“And this is why none of you idiots should be allowed to make plans, as I’ve already pointed out to Sherlock,” Victor interjects. “Well, possibly John. Though he does tend towards snap decisions of violence it seems,” he muses.

 

“Not helping, Victor!” Sherlock snaps. He looks at John guiltily. “I was planning on telling you. I told him I’d give him Mycroft’s laptop as a Christmas present. I was going to bring you along to Appledore, and we would get Mary’s file back together.”

 

Mary sighs. “I’d say that was a shit plan and you’d only end up getting yourselves killed, but really I’ve got no room to point fingers. Alright Irene, what are you suggesting?”

 

_“Well I didn’t know that about the laptop, but...yes, this will still work. The only way to stop Magnussen is to take away his power, which means taking away his secrets.”_

 

“But you just said he doesn’t actually have anything physical to steal,” John points out, his brow furrowed in confusion.

 

_“Yes, but no one knows that aside from us, do they? Victor insists on doing this without killing him, and truly we don’t need to. All we need is for everyone to think he’s selling their secrets and turn on him at once, and watch how far he gets. I didn’t make it long, and he has the potential for far more dangerous enemies than I ever made. If you’re wondering why I’m doing this, I owe Sherlock a debt for my life. I do so hate feeling as if anyone has power over me.”_

 

Sherlock’s mind begins making tenuous connections and he smiles. It’s not a nice smile. “I do admire your mind, Irene. So how does this work?”

 

_“You contact him and tell him the deal has changed. That you’re the one with the bargaining chip now. He won’t be able to resist a taunt like that. Tell him I’m not as dead as he thought, and he’s displeased me by threatening you. As punishment, I’ve given you my phone to do with as you please. He’ll know what that means, as it contained a few rather...salacious pictures of him. I’m assuming Mycroft wiped the information on the phone, but he doesn’t know that as he hasn’t had the phone in his hands. Tell him you’ll meet, and he’ll give you the drive in exchange for not releasing all content related to him onto the internet.”_

 

“Will that put you in danger?” Victor asks, sounding concerned.

 

Sherlock waves his hand derisively. “She’d never offer to do this if she was in danger. Besides, he won’t make it long enough to do anything with the information that he’s still alive. That is your thinking, correct Irene?”

 

_“Why Sherlock, I’m offended you don’t think I’d risk my life for you. Though I am perfectly safe where I am. Now, here is what needs to happen. Mycroft gave me a list of everyone he knows Magnussen is blackmailing as well as their contact information, and I’ve added a few names of my own. It’s...extensive. Some of the drug lords and what have you won’t have the same mobile numbers I’m certain since they change them frequently. But I have their subordinates’ info., and word will have to get around that way in those cases.”_

 

John holds up a hand. “Wait- Mycroft gave you a list? Just like that? How exactly did that conversation go, considering he thought you were dead as well?”

 

Irene grins wickedly. _“It was a decided pleasure to hear such surprise in his voice for an entire five words or so before he managed to cover it up, I must admit. It took a small amount of convincing- well, a large amount of convincing, but that is my strong point after all. He was rather set on not kicking a hornet’s nest, as Magnussen has yet to threaten England or the crown itself. But he does have a soft spot for his brother. And while I might not know what he likes, I know someone who does…”_

 

“Stop! Oh god, I don’t want to know!” John groans. “Nope, too late. The place my mind just went will haunt me forever,” he laments, rubbing his eyes.

 

Mary only laughs. “Well I want a hint at least,” she encourages. “That little shit didn’t even come to the wedding. I’d love something to tease him with at family gatherings. Just something to make him squirm a bit.” She leans forward conspiratorially.

 

Irene smirks. _“Oh, I do like you. The next time you see him, just casually ask if he’s ever considered getting a kitty as they make such good pets, and smile like you know something. And maybe ask him if he’d like some warm milk before bed.”_

 

Sherlock grimaces. “I've been avoiding making that deduction for years. Moving on, please.”

 

“ _We need to do this quickly, since there’s no way he doesn’t know the three of you are here together right now and he’ll be expecting something rash and ill-advised in an attempt to get Mary’s drive. Much like your idiotic plan, Sherlock, or your failed one, Mary. It will make him more likely to show up to a meeting than waiting months and letting him to get suspicious of something this clever.”_

“Humble _and_ beautiful, I like it,” Victor grins, giving her a wink.

 

John rolls his eyes. “Remind me why he’s here.”

 

“ _Because we need him. Well, we need his bank account. No offence, dear.”_

 

“None taken. Whatever you need; I was getting bored of wasting money on private islands anyway,” Victor states airily.

 

“ _That’s good, since this might cost you one or two. What we need to do is first send messages to the political powers on the list. Texts from untraceable numbers, stating that Magnussen has just offered to sell the recipient’s secrets to the sender. Imply the sender is from a foreign nation, or opposing party, and if the recipient wants proof just ask some other name on the list. The politicians are the least likely to send an immediate assassin. First, they’ll try to verify the information. And since all of them will receive a similar message, the rumors will begin to spread. Some may even contact Magnussen himself, but that will only serve to put him on edge. This should happen today. Tomorrow we contact the business people, lawyers, doctors, etc. and tell them the same thing. The next day we contact the criminal element. Including the assassins themselves.”_

 

Mary whistles. “That’s...a lot of players on the board.”

 

_“It is. This is a complicated game of chess, and we need him in checkmate when Sherlock meets to get your drive back the day after tomorrow. We tell Magnussen to meet Sherlock at say...ten. This is where Victor comes in. I need you, my darling man, to buy some time, supplies, workers, whatever is necessary for a special one-time printing of our very own newspaper. Featuring only one article. It needs to be printed, and set to be distributed for free, by the time of the meeting the day after tomorrow. No earlier. You are going to need to buy silence as well, though mostly from the owner of the paper since by the time printing begins at say, nine, it will be too late for Magnussen to do anything about it. Though paying a healthy bonus to the workers wouldn’t hurt either. You won’t tell them what you’re printing ahead of time, of course. It needs to go up online as well, obviously. No point printing it world-wide when it will spread just fine like this.”_

 

Sherlock nods, already lost in the details of making all of this work. It’s deliciously complex. After going so long without a case, he can feel his mind purring at the challenge. Or possibly that’s also due to Mary’s hand on his neck and John’s fingers clutching his thigh. “And the article will say…”

 

“Oh, I’m assigning that job to John, he’s the writer after all.”

 

John sits up a bit straighter. “Sorry, what?”

 

_“Don’t be so modest, the stories on your blog are fabulous. And I need a good story. Sadly, no one will know you wrote it. The article needs to detail- without exact specifics- how Magnussen is blackmailing, and thereby controlling, much of the powers-that-be in the world. How he knows secrets that would bring countries to their knees. How an intrepid reporter has discovered that the rumors of hidden vaults storing files on everyone he’s controlling are an utter myth. How Magnussen admitted they’re all stored in his mind. How he’s seen the error of his ways and decided the truth will set everyone free, and he’s agreed to meet with said intrepid reporter to reveal everything in the following day’s paper. That, combined with the collective suspicion he’s selling secrets, is enough that it’s possible Sherlock should wear Kevlar in case someone takes a shot at him before their meeting ends.”_

 

“Well that takes care of him, but how do we get him to hand over my drive before he sees the article?” Mary asks. “And how do we know he only has one copy?”

 

_“Oh, he definitely only has one. The way his mind works, to make a copy would diminish the value of what he has. Sherlock merely has to place the phone you used to send all of the messages on the table, and ask Magnussen to set the drive next to it. He’ll appreciate the drama of that, so he’ll comply. Sherlock then asks him to open the sent message folder, and watches as Magnussen tries to look calm and come up with a way to get the upper hand again. Then, Sherlock hands him the paper. He’ll be so shocked to have been out-manipulated that Sherlock can simply pick up the drive and walk away, trust me.”_

 

“And if he’s not, I’m not above simply punching him and taking it. He won’t live long enough to press charges,” Sherlock points out.

 

“ _See, we even have a backup plan. So. Sherlock and Mary, I need you working on sending those texts. I’ll take care of my own contact list. I’m sure you two can come up with the best phrasing and order to sent them in to ensure maximum damage. Victor, I need you on that printing. It could take a while to arrange. John, the article._ ” She pauses eye each of them. “ _Are you with me?”_

 

Sherlock’s smile is confident, Mary’s downright menacing, and John’s determined. Yes, Sherlock thinks, they can do this. “I’m in,” he declares.

 

“What the hell, let’s do it,” John nods.

 

“Well it’s not as satisfying as shooting him myself, but it definitely has a better chance of succeeding,” Mary admits.

 

“When it’s all over, can I please pitch this to HBO?” Victor asks. “I mean...with my shield or on it, fair lady,” he amends at their unified glare.

 

The next few hours are chaotic to say the least. Victor sits down with his laptop for all of two minutes before he begins pacing. “No one, not even The Sun, is going to go for this without some sort of legal assurance.”  He picks up the phone and calls Irene back, declaring he needs a lawyer they can trust. And get to write up a document absolving the paper from all responsibility.His voice is as urgent and carries as clearly as if he were on the trading floor, as he places calls to the lawyers she suggests.

 

Sherlock and Mary sit at the table and peer at Sherlock’s laptop, creating a spreadsheet that John declares hurts his brain, involving all of the contacts and who should receive messages from whom. It’s not nearly accomplished calmly, and involves rather a lot of loud arguing and gesturing and tea sloshing onto the table due to said gesturing.

 

John tries to sit calmly on the sofa and type out his story with his laptop perched on his thighs, but before long he’s swearing at the screen in frustration and yelling out to Mary and Sherlock for helpful synonyms.

 

By the time eleven pm rolls around and the first round of texts have been sent from a series of pre-paid mobiles, John has a tentative draft, Victor has a lawyer in his pocket, and everyone but Sherlock is mentally exhausted. They’ve all reached the point of hungry and crabby about it, as they’ve neglected dinner completely. Victor declares it’s time for a break, and he makes his point by slamming their laptops shut when the pizza he ordered arrives.

 

Sherlock attempts to complain, but the matching looks that manage to be both challenging and hot from John and Mary make him nearly re-think his position. But there’s so much left to do. “I’m not hungry. John knows how I get on a case,” he says as he begins to open his laptop again. John stops him by taking his wrist and guiding his hand away. He flicks his gaze up to John’s questioningly.  

 

“Actually ,I think you should go keep Mary company.” John nods towards the sofa where Mary is sitting on one end with her pizza and Victor on the other.

 

Sherlock’s stomach flutters at the subtle order to the tone. Right. Stopping for the night it is, then. The flutter shifts to what he can only describe as a mental sigh of contentment as Mary smiles at him and taps the pillow next to her on the floor with her bare foot encouragingly.

 

“John told you then?” Sherlock asks as he folds his legs under him on the pillow and faces her, leaning his elbow on the sofa and looking up at her.

 

“You really must be focused on this whole thing if you didn’t notice we were texting each other across the room,” she says as she reaches out to run her fingers through his hair.

 

Sherlock blinks in surprise, because he actually hadn’t. But he feels buzzed with energy, like he’s on the high of a case. He knows it’s late and everyone else is tired, but he’s too keyed up to sleep even though he knows John and Mary are ready to drop as they haven’t had as much sleep as him lately. Surely John understands that. He’s used to Sherlock not sleeping for days while on a case. “I just need this over, Mary. I need him out of the picture as much as you do.”

 

“I know how you feel. I need John safe, and the baby safe, and now there’s you…but I need sleep, or I’m going to mess something up. I’m not normally this tired,” she says apologetically, running a hand absently over her abdomen.

 

Suddenly Sherlock feels a prickle of worry. He hadn’t considered, and now he feels like a right insensitive arse. Which isn’t a wholly unfamiliar feeling, but feeling bad about it definitely is. “Right. Right, pregnancy often leads to feelings of exhaustion. You need more sleep than normal, and the recent stress can’t be helping with that. I’ll see John gets you to bed soon, and no one wakes you in the morning-”

 

“Oh no, there’s no way I can _possibly_ sleep without both of my men. If you’re not in bed, I’ll worry you’re pushing yourself too hard and I won’t be able to sleep,” she declares, a sly smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

 

Sherlock blinks up at her in grudging admiration. It’s a manipulation worthy of himself, really, and rather difficult to be upset about it when it’s obvious that she knows that he knows exactly what she’s doing.   

 

John comes and sits down on the couch next to her so that he’s nearly touching Sherlock. He picks up a small piece of pizza with his fingers- he’s cut a slice into little squares- and brings it down to Sherlock’s mouth. “You do realize you signed on for more than just sex and roommates, right? Relationships are about taking care of each other, and you need to eat. And sleep.”

 

Sherlock takes the bite slowly and then sucks the sauce off of John’s fingers before he begins chewing, relishing the way John’s eyes glaze over slightly. He searches for the irritation that  being told what to do would generally elicit, but can’t find it. He’s simply grateful for the fact that John wants this. That Mary does as well. He feels a bit of tension drain from his muscles, and he arranges himself so he can lean against John’s legs.

 

“Thank you,” John says, his gaze soft and approving.

 

“For what?” Sherlock asks before accepting another bite. He relaxes even further when John runs a hand through his hair before reaching for another piece.

 

“For letting me do this. You’re usually a stroppy pain in the arse when I try to get you to eat during a case.”

 

“Apparently you were just doing it wrong before,” Sherlock snarks, because while he can change some things his sharp tongue isn’t one of them.

 

“No, you were just a stroppy pain in the arse. Trust me on this one. I’m an expert in you being a pain in the arse,” John counters, cutting of a potential rebuttal by shoving another bite into Sherlock’s pouting mouth.

 

Victor laughs from his side of the sofa. “And you get to watch this adorableness for the rest of your life, Mary. I’m mildly jealous.”

 

“You should be,” she replies with a wink as she leans over to kiss John’s cheek and then reaches down to tap Sherlock’s nose.

 

“All of this sappiness is making me miss Ryan,” Victor sighs. “Well, it’s only dinner time back in New York. Perfect time for some Skype sex. You three enjoy yourselves!” He takes his plate and wanders away to John’s room.

 

“You’re in charge of changing the sheets when he leaves,” John says to Sherlock with a grimace. “And flipping the mattress.”

 

“As if you’ll be sleeping up there when my bed is bigger and more comfortable,” Sherlock counters before opening his mouth in anticipation of another bite. Apparently he was more hungry than he’d thought. And then there’s the delicious little thrill of licking John’s fingers clean.

 

“You’re still doing it,” John replies, narrowing his eyes and adding more than a hint of command to his tone.

 

Sherlock’s stomach flutters. Damn but John is attractive when he’s in captain mode. “And what do I get if I do it?” he asks, quirking his brow up challengingly.

 

“You get me being pleased with you,” John replies simply. “And I’ll buy Mary that military outfit you’ve been thinking about.”

 

Sherlock is momentarily caught off-guard by the sudden pooling heat in his groin. After shutting away his sexuality for so long, he’s not used to allowing himself this sort of arousal. It’s good, it’s definitely good, but it’s also oddly nerve-inducing. He glances up at Mary to gauge her reaction.

 

“Oh, I’m definitely on board with that idea. Though you may want to arrange it quite quickly. I’m not sure how easy that would be to find for someone eight or nine months pregnant,” she points out with an easy smile. “But not tonight. Sorry boys, but I’m too tired for anything crazy kinky and energetic tonight.”

 

Something feels off about the comment, and it takes Sherlock a moment to sort out what it is. “We should make it a rule right now never to apologize about our sexual desires, or lack thereof. As John is fully aware, I rarely apologize for anything and I don’t plan to begin now. If you’re not in the mood for sex, then you’re not. It’s completely fine. ‘I’m sorry’ in that context carries vague connotations of guilt, and quite frankly it’s rather irritating.”

 

John rolls his eyes. “How about apologizing for your complete lack of tact.”

 

Mary blinks at Sherlock for a few moments before laughing. “I think I finally just realized that this is going to work. That’s a wonderful plan. No apologies for things like that. Agreed. So why don’t we finish our pizza, get ready for bed, and see what sort of sleepy sex we can come up with?”

 

Sherlock accepts a bite of pizza from her, noting the subtle differences from when John feeds him. He still enjoys it, but from Mary it feels...still mostly comforting, like he’s being cared for. With John, it feels much more erotic and possessive. He’s not entirely sure which sensations he prefers, and is still rather shocked by the fact that he gets to experience both.

 

By the time Sherlock makes it into the bedroom last since he wanted to write down a few more ideas for texts, he can admit to himself that he’s a bit tired- not that he’d ever admit it to John or Mary. He wanders in and the lights are out, but the light from the streetlamps streaming through the window is enough to illuminate John and Mary where they lie in the center of the bed. They are naked and kissing, arms wrapped around each other, and they’re mesmerizing. Sherlock feels a twinge of uncertainty, though he doesn’t go as far a stepping back out of the room.

 

John turns and looks at him almost immediately, and holds out a hand. “Of course we still want you, you brilliant idiot,” he says with an encouraging smile.

 

Mary pats the bed next to her.

 

“Well. Of course you do. Naturally,” Sherlock replies airily as he steps out of his trousers and crawls over to kneel beside Mary. The relief of being wanted is likely to show on his face, so he avoids the possibility by leaning down to kiss John while his left hand slides slowly up Mary’s thigh. He pulls away, licks his lips, and looks down at Mary’s expression. “You want him inside of you, but you want him to do the work of being on top,” he deduces.

 

“That was an easy one,” she teases, “I already told you I want sleepy sex.”

 

“Fine,” Sherlock huffs, and turns to John. “You...are afraid that will make me feel left out.”

 

John looks like he’s about to protest, but then he nods.

 

“Well stop worrying, because I don’t. Just being here, watching you two together, feels- memorize this because I’m _never_ repeating it- like I’m being given a gift. I’m being allowed something no one else gets to experience. You’re sharing your most intimate moments with me, and I like watching you when you’re experiencing pleasure even if I’m not the one giving it to you. Besides, you only have one cock. Logically you can only fuck one of us at a time,” he adds with a smirk.

 

“When I’m more awake I’m sure I can come up with some way to make it work,” John replies with a relieved sort of smile. “For now, why don’t you help me get her off. If I do it as slowly as she can stand I’m sure I can wait to come with my hand wrapped around both of our cocks.”

 

Sherlock’s still-soft cock twitches at that mental image. “I can do that,” he agrees, watching raptly as John rolls carefully on top of Mary and arranges himself so he’s supporting his weight on his forearms as he lines himself up and slides into her slowly.

 

The soft sounds of pleasure that both of them make have Sherlock reaching down to palm his steadily lengthening erection. He’s watched porn before, of course he has, but it never did much for him in terms of arousal. But this...Mary arches and her legs wrap around John’s, and her fingers dig into the skin of his back. The muscles in John’s thighs and arse and back ripple and bunch as he undulates his hips oh-so-slowly and it’s intensely erotic. John’s back is arched so he can kiss Mary while he performs a complicated yet practiced set of motions. He varies between slow thrusts and then hip circles without pulling out, then pulling out completely and reaching down to rub just the head of his cock over her clitoris until she’s whining and clawing at him before sliding back in.

 

Sherlock licks his fingers and then reaches between them to begin running them in varying motions over her clitoris, whenever John isn’t in his way. It’s fascinating. He works on memorizing her reactions to what they are doing, filing useful bits of data away for later. He doesn’t feel left out, but he does feel a bit impatient so he resorts to watching her closely and directing John’s motions. He uses his free hand to begin stroking himself as he doesn’t think John will last long after this.

 

It works. Though part of it may have been that Mary clearly enjoys hearing Sherlock instruct John on how best to make her squirm. Because her orgasm only takes seven minutes, Sherlock decides they can get another in four and she will definitely be ready for a good night’s sleep. He smirks when it only takes three and a half.

 

“You two are fucking amazing,” she breathes, reaching out to pet John’s back as she watches him  basically tackle Sherlock onto the bed and into the same basic position she was in.  

 

John wraps his hand around their erections and begins to thrust into the circle. “Tell me you’re close,” he pants, leaning down to bite Sherlock’s neck hard before kissing him.

 

Sherlock can only hum an affirmative and reach down to wrap his own hand around John’s to aid in the delicious friction. He’s close now, because something about John’s obvious desperation and erratic thrusting is hotter than it has any right to be. And then Mary’s nails begin dragging up and down the skin of his side and seconds after he feels John’s semen splashing against his chest he’s orgasming as well.

 

After the third round of half-hearted, “I’m not moving to get a washrag, you get up to get a washrag,” between John and Mary, Sherlock finally groans and pulls a pillowcase off and tosses it in Mary’s general direction.

 

“Yeah, works for me,” she mumbles. She hands it to John a few moments later.

 

John finally rolls off of Sherlock and wipes them both down as much as possible. “We are so going to need showers in the morning,” he mumbles as he turns to drape himself over one half of Sherlock while Mary claims the other.

 

Sherlock begins to suspect a conspiracy to keep him in bed, but he’s too contented to complain. He’s warm and securely pressed into the mattress, and Mary’s hair is tickling his chin while John’s stubble rasps against his chest. It’s quite possibly the best thing he’s ever felt, and he is _not_ losing it. While his lovers sleep, he trails his fingers over their skin and continues to plan.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have one chapter to go and it's already started, so it will be a far shorter wait for it! I'm not fighting words anymore, which is always a relief! This chapter has pretty much everything in it to make up for the wait- angst, fluff, smut, conversations, more fluff- all my favorite things : ) Ever so many thanks for reading this! And all the love and thanks to Hedwig-Dordt for all of her time spent editing and encouraging- love you, darling!!

  


When the light filtering through the window wakes Sherlock up, he groans and attempts to roll over and bury his head in the pillow. Instead, he only manages to elbow John in the face. He simply growls at John’s surprised yelp, because of course John is practically on top of him, just as he has been all night. As has Mary. Who moves a lot while she sleeps. And gets up to use the loo repeatedly. At this point, he is decidedly not in a good mood. And it bothers _him_ , because he knows it will bother _them_ , which is neither a familiar nor entirely welcome turn of events. He can practically hear Mycroft lilting _caring is not an advantage_ in an utterly obnoxious tone.

 

“Is he always this cheery in the morning?” Mary asks, her voice still rough with sleep. She reaches out to ruffle Sherlock’s hair.

 

“Well I’m going to end up with a permanently bruised nose if he is,” John teases, poking Sherlock in the side.

 

Sherlock is not in the mood for teasing. “Well if I’m that distasteful, I’ll just sleep on the sofa tonight. I’d definitely get more sleep, as sharing a bed with the two of you consists of being alternately smothered and kicked.” He sits up and springs over a wide-eyed John and then strides out of the bedroom, slamming the door and heading into the washroom. Which he locks. He turns the water on as hot as he can stand and then steps into the shower. Irritatingly, the water pounding against his skin does nothing to make him feel any better. He can’t shake the feeling of guilt at the way his abrupt departure and mood must have upset them. Which annoys him all over again.  

 

Maybe he’s not cut out for relationships, he decides, as he scrubs his hair more harshly than strictly necessary. Feeling this way is unacceptable. Anxious that he’s ruined things with John and Mary, and irritated at himself for it, and irritated at being irritated.

 

He ignores the knock at the door, and first John and then Mary asking if he’s alright. He’s not, clearly, but he doesn’t know how to fix it. Or if he wants to let them try. The idea of admitting to needing anything, of allowing himself to be that vulnerable, is uncomfortable. Sex is one thing, but this isn’t about sex. He’s not sure he wants to be the one who _needs_ anyone’s support. It’s not who he is.He doesn’t want them to know he’s already feeling overwhelmed by this, that he’s not sure he can be everything they want.  

 

He finally turns off the water and wraps himself in a towel, and then sits on the edge of the tub with water dripping into his eyes. He’s not certain he can bring himself to leave the room, not when John and Mary are probably sitting on the other side with matching worried looks. He has no idea what to say to them. Usually, blunt honesty is his style and he doesn’t care who he upsets by it. But somehow saying, ‘I don’t want to sleep with you all the time because it makes me feel alternately trapped and bored and aggravated’ doesn’t seem like a good plan.

 

After a few minutes of silence, Victor’s voice calls to him matter-of-factly through the door. “So you can open this, or I can kick it in. And let’s face it, I’ll probably end up breaking my foot and then someone will have to drive me to the hospital and it will be an entire dramatic scene, and really, are you feeling up for that? It’s just me, I promise.”

 

Sherlock grits his teeth and forces himself to move and open the door. He feels like he’s walking in deep water against a current. Once Victor slips inside, he shuts the door and then turns and lets himself slide down it onto the floor, where he hugs his knees and closes his eyes to avoid the no-doubt searching gaze.

 

“Sooo,” Victor drawls as he sits next to Sherlock and bumps his thigh against his friend’s, “we’re dealing with another peppermint tea situation, aren’t we?”

 

It’s a mark of his mental state that it takes a full two seconds for Sherlock to make the connection. Ah, _that_ situation.

 

On their third night together dinner hadn’t agreed with his stomach, but he was attempting to ignore it in favor of trying out that rimming thing Victor had suggested. But before he’d even tugged off his shirt Victor had called him an idiot, pushed him back down onto the sofa, and ordered him to stay. He’d returned in short order with a cup of peppermint tea which he’d pressed into Sherlock’s hands. Before Sherlock could protest, Victor had pulled him back against his chest and begun running his hands gently over Sherlock’s stomach. Sherlock had promptly had a completely unexpected emotional meltdown.

 

Victor gently guides Sherlock’s head down to lean against his shoulder. “I told you that there was nothing wrong with wanting to be snuggled instead of fucked. And then you freaked out and burned yourself by sloshing tea over your hand from jumping up so fast, and I had to chase you halfway around the lake before you’d finally talk to me. If I recall, it basically it turned out that you’d only mentally prepared yourself for sex, not actual affection. Then I said I was going to find whoever made you think you’d only be wanted for sex, and punch them in the face.”

 

Sherlock huffs. “You always were dramatic.”

 

“I’m taking that as a compliment. Now tell me Liam, why are you running from the peppermint tea this time? John and Mary are the tea, in case you’re not following the metaphor,” he supplies helpfully.

 

“I did manage to follow that bit, yes,” Sherlock replies in irritation.

 

“Testy I see. Well how about I just guess, and you tell me when I’m right? Okay…you realized you made a horrible mistake and want to go back to being alone.”

 

“No!” A rush of revulsion mixed with fear floods through Sherlock at the very idea.

 

“Ah good, thought not. Hmmm...you discovered you are not as enamored of Georgia O’Keefe’s favorite bit of anatomy as she clearly is?”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “As it turns out, I find Mary’s- what?” he snaps, narrowing his eyes as Victor snorts, covering his mouth and attempting to look serious.

 

“I just never thought I’d hear you say the word ‘vagina’ unless it related to some sort of clinical study,” Victor giggles.

 

“Oh, very mature,” Sherlock retorts, feeling oddly better already. “And the term is vulva, unless you are referring to the specific passage leading from the opening of the vulva to the cervix. It’s a common and irritating anatomical mistake.”

 

Victor waves his hand dismissively. “Well it all seems terribly complicated, and I’ll stick to the far more basic penis. Far fewer confusing bits involved there. Though knowing you, the confusing bits hold most of the appeal.”

 

Sherlock perks up a bit at the prospect of a scientific discussion. “I’ve so many experiments I want to run! For example, does she-”

 

Victor claps a hand over Sherlock’s mouth. “Spare me the details!. And you’re getting sidetracked. If it’s not Mary’s lack of a penis that has you hiding in the loo, maybe it’s…” He considers a moment, then sobers visibly. “It’s just sudden and overwhelming. Going from having no one for years, to suddenly sharing a bed with me, and then John, and then both of them. You want it, but it’s like eating all the Christmas candy in one go.”

 

“You have the strangest ways of describing things, but essentially I’d say you’re correct. I want them, this, but it’s- I want to be what they need. What they want. But I’m not sure I can- but if I tell them, they’ll- I don’t want-” He growls and bangs his forehead against his knee in frustration. If he can’t even adequately explain how he’s feeling to Victor, how is he going to be able to explain himself to John and Mary?

 

Victor tucks an arm around Sherlock and places a kiss in his hair. “You don’t need to be anything in particular. John wants you how you are, and from what I’ve seen so does Mary. You're a right pain in the arse, and they want you anyway for fuck’s sake! If you tell them sometimes they’re a bit much to be around all the time, or sleep with, so you’re taking the empty bed in the flat, they’re not going to leave you. Sure maybe they’ll wish you wanted to be with them every night, but if they really love you they’ll understand that might not be a thing you can comfortably offer at this point.”

 

Sherlock feels a renewed jolt of unease. “But that’s now how it works, is it?”

 

Victor huffs out a laugh. “Darling, none of this is ‘how it works,’ if you ask most people. And since when have you been concerned with what’s considered normal? Just...what you have with them, it’s worth keeping. And if you make your own rules, it’s no one’s business but your own. But you have to talk to them. If only because they are probably sitting on the sofa wondering what they did wrong and how they can fix it so they don’t lose you.”

 

Sherlock tilts his head to the side and peeks out at Victor, feeling better but rather ridiculous as well. Which is another new sensation. “Just so you’re aware, this minor incident never occurred. Not if you want the _other_ incident of July 14,1998 to remain a secret.”

 

Victor’s eyes widen dramatically. “You manipulative bastard!”

 

“Yes well, no need to change _completely_ ,” Sherlock smirks. “Now find something to do upstairs, why don’t you?”

 

Victor grins. “There’s the Sherlock I know and love. Well, I need to check in with Irene regardless. I’ll be back down in a bit for your tortilla espanola if _you_ want the events of August second, 1998 to remain a secret. _I_ can be a manipulative bastard as well.”

 

Sherlock gives Victor an approving nod. “Touche. Breakfast will be in an hour.”

 

“I thought so,” Victor winks. “Well, I’ll just be going then. See you in a bit. And don’t worry, they’ll understand.” He gives Sherlock a quick kiss on the nose, and then leaves.

 

Sherlock forces himself to his feet a few moments later. May as well get this over with, even though it will involve still more talking. He throws on a dressing gown and steps out to see John and Mary not on the sofa, but sitting at the kitchen table with mugs of tea and matching uncertain looks.

 

Sherlock decides to just get it over with. “John, while I usually enjoy you touching me it was more than I wanted by morning. And Mary, the same goes for you. And you move around a frankly ridiculous amount. You both need to understand that sometimes being around you will be more than I can handle at the moment.” He tilts his chin up and looks down at them, bracing himself for a negative reaction.

 

John’s relief is apparent as he relaxes from his tension-strung posture to flop against the back of the chair and release a breath on a half-laugh. “That’s it? Christ, you scared the hell out of me. I thought you were having second thoughts.”

 

Mary smiles and pokes John in the shoulder. “See, I told you it had to be something like that,” she asserts, but her voice is just relieved enough to belie her certainty. “I’m sorry I got up twice, I swear this kid is already squishing my bladder. And I do move around a lot, John is just used to is so he sleeps right through it. We can put him in the middle so I kick him instead,” she offers hopefully. “Or you can just get up and sleep in another bed if you need to, and come back for morning sex. If you’re in the mood.”  

 

Sherlock blinks at her in surprise. “You’re not mad? I was under the impression people in functional relationships are expected to share a bed every night and spend as much time together as possible,” he points out, eyeing them carefully and pushing down his own sense of relief until he’s certain.

 

Mary reaches out with her foot and pushes the chair across from her so it scoots out a bit, and indicates that he’s welcome to sit down. “Weren’t you the one who decided there was no apologizing for not being in the mood for sex? We’ll just amend the rule to cover no apologizing for not being in the mood for whatever. But explaining yourself is also a rule, so none of us worries the others. Sound fair?”

 

“What she said,” John agrees. “I’m not upset you felt a bit smothered. I should’ve considered how difficult it would be for you to go from sleeping alone to sleeping with two other people, so I’m sorry I pushed for more than you’re ready for. Or will ever be ready for. It’s all fine. Just yeah...tell us what you’re thinking. All you need to say is ‘I need some space’ and I won’t worry.”

 

“But you’ll be disappointed,” Sherlock deduces from John’s expression.

 

“Well I’d _like_ you to sleep with us, you’d just know I was lying if I said I didn’t want that. But the idea of forcing you into something for my benefit rather makes me sick. So when we’re overwhelming, feel free to escape for a while. I’m still in a state of shock you’re even letting me touch you as much as you have, honestly. I know you’re still you, Sherlock, and I don’t want to change you.”

 

Sherlock takes a step forward but doesn’t sit, even though the sudden rush of ‘oh thank all the gods’ flooding his system makes him lock his knees so he doesn’t wobble.  “Oh. Right. Well then. I’ll...keep that in mind. So. Breakfast. You both want breakfast, no? I promised Victor tortilla espanola.” In order to avoid looking at them, because he’s not sure how much more conversation about serious things he can stand right now, he strides quickly over to the fridge and begins pulling out eggs and butter.    

 

“You can cook?” Mary asks in genuine surprise, followed by a rapid, “I mean yes. That would be lovely.”

 

“John thinks I’m even better than you,” Sherlock replies, because it’s only fair John has to have an uncomfortable conversation as well.

 

“Does heeeee?” Mary drawls.

 

Sherlock can clearly envision her narrowed eyes and John’s patented look of ‘shit I fucked up,’ and he grins as a teasing fight between the two of them ensues. By the time they’re done and have made up with kisses, Sherlock has chopped all of the onions and is starting in on the potatoes.

 

“We’d ask if you need any help, but we’re too busy admiring you chopping vegetables in a dressing gown,” John states with a cautiously lascivious tone, as if he’s not sure Sherlock wants to play along right now.    

 

“Would you prefer to watch me without it?” Sherlock asks, letting a bit of seduction slip into his tone. He wonders exactly how he’s managed to go from irritated to uncertain and then mildly aroused in the span of half an hour. Also, he’s uncertain if his actions have put John off of wanting anything sexual for a while. This whole relationship thing is devilishly complicated, but it’s definitely not boring. He brings his hands up to toy with the knotted belt and watches in satisfaction as John licks his lips.

 

“I- that is- I’m sorry, a short while ago you couldn’t get out of bed fast enough and now you look like you’d like to drag us back in,” John says cautiously. He has that look of intensely trying to sort something out that Sherlock finds so unintentionally arousing.

 

Mary just shakes her head at John and gives Sherlock an understanding look. “People are allowed to change their minds quickly, John. We just have to trust Sherlock is being honest about what he wants and isn’t just giving in to make us happy. Which, now that you know we don’t want that, you’ll try not to do it anymore, won’t you? He just needs to hear it from you, love.” She looks at Sherlock expectantly and gives him an encouraging nod.

 

“Right. John, I am still the ignorant, rude, obnoxious arsehole you somehow had the misfortune to fall in love with. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, or how this is supposed to work. I just know I _wan_ t it to work. But I suspect I’m going to cock it all up at rather alarming intervals.Though I will attempt not to make this particular error again. And it would please me to cook for you without this on. I am a show-off, as you well know.” He gives John a hopeful look. Maybe that was a bit much. He bounces on his toes nervously.

 

John stares for a moment as if he’s trying to process what he’s just heard, but then he shakes it off and gives Sherlock a relieved smile. He pushes his chair well back from the table. “Then come here and let me help you with that knot,” he says in a tone that manages to be both teasing and commanding at the same time. “Just for the preparation though, I don’t want you to risk burning yourself with splashing oil once you begin cooking.”

 

A complicated mix of relief, desire, and anticipation has Sherlock’s senses in a state of high alert. It’s an entirely new sort of thrill, and he’s anxious to explore it. He strides over and straddles John’s thighs, crossing his hands behind his back because it feels right somehow, and tilts his head to the side. “Yes, Captain,” he smirks, then waits to see what John will do next. He doesn’t know, which in itself is exciting.

 

John’s hands immediately slide beneath the material to grab Sherlock’s arse firmly. “Fuck. Look at you. Just...fuck.” His eyes flick from Sherlock’s bared neck, to his chest, then down to where the dressing gown has slipped open to reveal his lengthening cock. “Someday I’m going to take you just like this,” he promises as he leans in to kiss and lick his way up to Sherlock’s ear.

 

“No, facing the other way,” Mary interjects, “So I can suck him off at the same time. If he wants,” of course.” She gets up so she can stand behind John’s chair and reach down to drag her nails up the back of Sherlock’s neck and begin scratching his scalp.

 

Sherlock’s breath hitches as the visual hits, and he finds he does want. “Please,” he breathes, knowing how that word affects John.

 

“But not now,” Mary says in a softly teasing voice. “Now you’re busy making breakfast, and then we have a psychopath to deal with.” She leans down to bite John’s earlobe, which makes him lean into the sting and squirm. “Besides, the wanting is what make the having so damn good. I’m sure you two will be far more productive if you know what’s waiting for you. Go on and untie that, John.”

 

For someone who likes getting what he wants when he wants it, Sherlock finds Mary’s suggestion of being forced to wait surprisingly...hot.

 

John unties the knot slowly, pushing the gown down off of Sherlock’s shoulders immediately afterwards. “Okay, I’m definitely on board with you being naked while we’re not.” He runs his hands appreciatively down that gloriously bared chest and digs his nails into Sherlock’s thighs just to see him hiss and squirm. “Up you, before we lose the ability to do what she says.” He immediately contradicts himself by pulling Sherlock in for a messily possessive kiss.

 

“That’s probably wise,” Sherlock pants when John finally pulls away. He wants to stay, but he also wants the satisfaction of being watched and wanted, so he forces himself to get up and let the dressing gown slip off completely. “You know, I told Victor breakfast would be ready in about an hour. He could come back anytime,” he warns as he lets his hips swing far more than usual on his way over to finish cutting potatoes. The illicit nature of being naked in the kitchen has him fully hard before he even picks up the knife. He likes the way it makes him feel, especially when he sees the heated looks fixed on his every move.

 

“Suddenly I find I don’t care,” John declares as Mary comes to settle sideways across his lap. “It’s not like he hasn’t seen this, but this time he’s not allowed to touch.”

 

“That idea is definitely more than a bit sexy,” Mary adds. “You’re lovely like this, Sherlock. Thank you.”

 

“For breakfast?” Sherlock asks, uncertain why he’s being thanked before it’s even finished.

 

“For giving this to us. For wanting us. For being naked in the kitchen. I don’t know, just...I want you to know I appreciate it. You.”

 

Sherlock feels himself flush at the praise, but it also makes him vaguely uncomfortable. He wants to believe it, but it’s still not easy accepting that he’s worthy of such affection. He thinks he ought to say something, but he genuinely doesn’t know what.

 

“What she said,” John affirms. “You don’t have to say anything, I can actually see your mind scrambling for a reply. I know it’s not easy for you believe all the good things we say about you, but we’re not going to stop and one day it will actually sink into that gorgeous head of yours. And you are extra hot right now. I’m just going to sit here and ignore my erection and think about everything I want to do to you later today.”

 

“Or you could tell me,” Sherlock purrs. “I’d like that. You’d like that too, wouldn’t you Mary?” Sherlock asks, relieved to be back into the more comfortable area of sex instead of emotions.

 

“Very much,” She agrees. “I’ll even add my own ideas. For example, I’d love to pin your hands to the bed above your head and hold them down while John rides you.” Both John and Sherlock stare at her with wide eyes. “Oh, were we starting with something more basic?”

 

“I think I might be a bit in love with your wife,” Sherlock states, surprised when his voice comes out shaky with a sudden rush of want. His mind rapidly supplies him with an image and oh, yes. That, they should definitely, definitely try that.

 

John’s response is to first kiss Mary fiercely. “Well, looks like we’ll be needing that purple dildo after all because I’m nervous as hell about the idea bottoming, but now I definitely want it. And I’m thinking the two of you will have me well prepared and begging for it in rather short order. And now we can move on to more basic things, because if we talk about this any more we’ll never get anything productive done today outside the bedroom.”

 

Sherlock’s cock jumps and he looks at John in surprised awe. “I. Oh. I didn’t think you’d- That was fast. Not that I’m complaining! I just. Right. Cooking over here.” He chops the potatoes on auto-pilot as Mary laughs and suggests something to John. He’s thought about it, of course he has, but the fact that John basically just asked Sherlock to be inside of him...he _wants_ it. But he’s terrified of hurting John. Well, some level of discomfort is likely unavoidable. Maybe. He’ll need to be extra careful, so that John loves it. Hopefully. Some men don’t. He begins to consider the steps he will need to take. Before he realizes what he did, he’s staring at a bowl of cut potatoes and chopped onions, with eggs mixed in. He appears to be holding a mixing spoon.

 

“Yep, we definitely lost him,” John says in an exaggeratedly loud voice, amusement clear in his tone.

 

Sherlock snaps out of his reverie and turns to look at the matching fond smiles fixed on him. “Ah. It appears it’s time to put something back on then.” He swoops over and grabs his dressing gown, shrugging it back on in embarrassment.

 

“It’s fine, darling. The idea of sex with John gets me daydreaming as well,” Mary says conspiratorially.

 

Just as Sherlock begins cooking, Victor breezes into the room. "Smells just as good as I remember. I never could get them to taste like yours," he comments as he pours more water into the electric kettle and flicks it on. He reaches out to ruffle Sherlock's hair before taking a seat at the table.  "So, you lovebirds appear to have worked things out."

 

"You just missed him getting everything ready while naked," Mary smirks.

 

"Damn. Well, maybe next time. I had to wake Irene up and formulate our game plan for today. I need to go meet a lawyer at four for finalizing paperwork, then to this little independent paper that is interested in our publication.  And probably the bank on the way. John should come with me."

 

"What? Why me?" John sounds suspicious.

 

"Because I need to seem important, so I need my hired muscle to come with. And of the three of you, you're the most likely to pull off quietly terrifying."

 

"Thanks?" John looks at Victor as if he's not sure whether to take it as a compliment.

 

“I can look quietly terrifying!” Sherlock protest indignantly.

 

Victor rolls his eyes. “Alright, let’s see ‘ _That’s right, you overlooked me at first but now you’re looking and a chill just went down your spine. Fuck with me and I will shoot you without a second thought and walk away smiling_ ’ from each of you. Sherlock, go.”

 

Sherlock straightens and imagines what that would look like and gives it his best shot, but he knows John is definity going to win this round. Which is fine, because that particular look of John’s is hot as hell. He turns to watch.

 

John shrugs and stands, closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them. It’s subtle and Sherlock needs all his deductive powers to figure out how he’s doing it, but suddenly John’s stance echoes that of a tightly coiled viper. His jaw is set, his eyes cold and somehow lethal.

 

Sherlock swallows hard and locks his knees so he doesn’t drop to the floor right there. John definitely wins.

 

“Fucking hell that’s terrifying,” Victor declares. “I just figured with the whole soldier thing, but that was a whole new level of scary. Remind me to always be on your good side,” he says as John grins, winks at Sherlock and sits back down smugly.

 

“Yep, take John,” Mary agrees.

 

They eat breakfast, which is delicious, and then go back to their own assigned tasks. Victor goes back to pacing the flat while talking expressively on his mobile. John sits on one end of the couch with his laptop while Sherlock and Mary sit on the other side with another, and a pile of disposable mobiles. They offer each other advice and argue over phrasing and generally try to keep each other calm, which grows more difficult as the day progresses considering all that is riding on this insane plan actually working.

 

Finally John’s article is complete and all the texts are sent, and all there is left to do is get Magnussen to agree to a meeting the following morning. They all agree that is best left for late in the evening so he doesn’t have much time to formulate any kind of counter-measures. By 2:30 in the afternoon they’re finished, and filled with nervous energy. Victor declares he’s going to call Ryan and attempt a nap, and that he will be back down at 4:30 to collect John.

 

Sherlock looks down the sofa at John and Mary, who are both looking like they’re hoping someone else will be the one to suggest what happens now. Apparently it’s his job to say the obvious thing everyone else is thinking. Ah well, at least he’s used to the role. “You know, it’s a scientific fact that orgasms are an excellent way to relieve stress. We should definitely have some. Together. Possibly not here. Bedroom?”

 

“Race you there!” Mary laughs, getting up and sprinting for the bedroom.

 

“That’s cheating!” John calls, turning to Sherlock with a bright smile that contrasts with the obvious lines of nervous tension visible as he chases after her.

 

Sherlock watches them for a second before he moves, wanting to take extra care to commit the moment to memory. The sounds of their laughter, the sudden- he suspects it’s joy, though he has little experience with the sensation- spreading like heat throughout his body. He’s _happy_. He slams a door shut on the immediate fear at the possibility of losing either of them, because he wants this, now. Just this. He jogs into the room to find them in a playfully wrestling tangle on the floor, each struggling to be the first to reach the bed. It’s ridiculous. It’s perfect. He springs over them and bounces into the center, then leans over to peer down at them. “So apparently I win.”

 

“Now _that’s_ cheating,” Mary scolds, her eyes bright as she laughingly ducks out of the shirt John has ahold of and climbs up after Sherlock. She’s not wearing a bra.

 

Sherlock rapidly assesses his reaction to her being suddenly topless. He finds her beautiful, like he finds certain art beautiful, and he wants to feel her skin against his, but it’s still not a sexual reaction like he experiences with John. Clearly his attraction to women functions differently than his attraction to men. They seem to be in a playful mood, so he shrugs out of his dressing gown, tosses it in John’s face, and grabs her around her waist to carefully topple them onto the bed. He’s not sure if she’s ticklish, but it seems like the right time to find out.

 

Mary shrieks playfully and squirms, not really trying to escape Sherlock’s questing fingers. “John! Help!”

 

“Oh no, you’re on your own!” John replies, getting up and leaning over to grab one of her ankles so he can tickle the soles of her feet.

 

“Come now, surely you can do better than that Mary,” Sherlock mock-admonishes as he finally gets a hand down to tickle her side. He has about a half a second to realize the tactical error in that phrasing, and then he finds himself suddenly pinned on his stomach with one hand up behind his back and the other trapped beneath her knee. Her free hand finds its way into his hair and then his neck is pulled back just hard enough for him to realize it could hurt if she wanted it to.

 

“You were saying?” She drawls, digging her nails into the skin of his wrist.

 

Sherlock is suddenly over playful. “Forget that. More of this. Please,” he adds, uncertain if she enjoys hearing it as much as John does.

 

“He likes it,” John encourages, his voice gone suddenly rough. “Damn but you two look hot like that.” He climbs onto the bed and reaches out to run a hand up Sherlock’s arched neck to cup his jaw, before leaning down to lick his way across Sherlock’s lower lip then pull away.

 

Sherlock nearly bites back a whimper, then remembers John likes to hear him, so he exaggerates it slightly instead. But only slightly, because oh, this is already incredible. Then John slides a finger into his mouth and he squirms as he hardens against the duvet.

 

“Mary, be a dear and keep him there,” John requests, his voice low and full of promise.

 

“Would you like that, Sherlock?” she asks as she tugs on his hair lightly.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes, relaxing into her grip and shutting the day’s stress and tomorrow’s worries away so he can devote all of his focus to this.

 

“Good, love,” Mary praises, shifting so she’s more comfortable but still has him pinned. “You just tell us if you don’t like something and want us to stop.”

 

Sherlock growls impatiently. “Fine, yes, fully consenting participant here. Now will you just-” his complaint is cut off in a ragged whine as John bites his arse hard.

 

“So demanding,” John chides. “Up” he commands, urging Sherlock to shift so his arse is in the air and he’s kneeling with his chest still pressed into the bed.

 

Mary adjusts to compensate, and kneels next to him so she can guide both hands back to rest on his lower back, wrists crossed. She wraps one hand around his upper wrist and presses it down, and uses the other to tangle in his hair and pull just hard enough to make him ache for more.

 

John drags his nails down Sherlock’s sides as he places feather-light kisses across his lower back, stopping to flutter his tongue just at the base of Sherlock’s tailbone. He runs his stubbled cheeks over Sherlock’s arse teasingly, pausing to scrape his teeth over the sensitive skin at unpredictable intervals. He grins when Sherlock writhes and tries to press back into the contact. “Was there something you wanted?” he asks innocently.

 

It takes Sherlock a moment to process the request, he’s already so lost in sensation. Ah, apparently John wants to hear him say more dirty things. Well, he does enjoy giving John what he wants. Especially if he’s going to get the things. “I want your tongue and fingers inside of me, John. I want Mary’s nails on my skin. When I’m close just from that, I want you to help me bring her to orgasm, and then I want you to fuck me while she holds me down. Please.”

 

“Fuck,” John groans, his fingers digging into Sherlock’s hips. “Your voice was made for dirty talk. But don’t you want- I mean I thought-”

 

Sherlock turns to look at John as best he can. “We have years, John. Yes the idea of penetrating you is enticing, and someday I will, but you asked what I wanted and right now I want this.” It’s the truth, and at this moment he’s not certain he’s in the right frame of mind to be patient and careful. He just wants to be...well, spoiled is a rather accurate term.

 

“He’s right love, we have years. Let’s just stick with what we’re all definitely comfortable with right now. Besides, all of that sounds really hot,” Mary says, sliding her hand down Sherlock’s neck to drag her nails back up it. “Does he always sound that coherent during sex though? We need to do better. Can we make him stop thinking clearly altogether do you think? I’m up for the challenge if you are,” she smirks.

 

Sherlock’s last truly complex thought for a long while is that she definitely was. It takes him a while to really let go because his mind is used to considering a dozen different things at once, and even with John’s tongue in his arse it’s difficult not to think about tomorrow’s plan. But slowly, he slides into the moment. Focuses on Mary’s soft praising voice, the grounding sting of her nails. John’s fingers inside of him, the imprint of his teeth and the warmth of his tongue.

 

Then there is movement, and he finds himself lying on his side with his head on Mary’s thigh, and John is guiding his fingers and she’s so soft, yet so strong. He focuses on the sounds she makes, the way her muscles shift beneath her skin as she writhes, the addictive sensation of her hand in his hair.

 

Some time later, he sighs contentedly when his head is guided down to a pillow in Mary’s lap as she leans back against the headboard, and she gently lifts his hands above his head to press his wrists into the mattress beside her crossed legs. Then John’s fingers are moving slowly inside of him again and he instinctively lifts his knees, inviting John closer. It’s not enough, but it’s oh so very, very intense as he opens his eyes to meet John’s. The pleasure-pain of being filled, the way their bodies move together, the unexpected perfection of Mary’s fingers laced with his as he is finally allowed to grip John’s back and pull him down to share kisses and breath. His orgasm, when it comes, feels like a minor extension of the experience. And then there is a haze of warmth and skin and being held and petted and loved, followed by a blissful nothing.  

 

Sherlock stirs to Mary’s whispered voice. “Careful, try not to wake him.”

 

“I know, but I need to go shower before I leave with Victor,” John whispers as he gently pulls his arm out from beneath Sherlock.

 

“I’m up,” Sherlock mumbles, wriggling further into Mary’s embrace. Well, sort of. He should probably get up. There are surely things that need to be done, but he’s so very, very comfortable.  

 

“No need to get up. I’ll be back as soon as I can, I just need to shower before I go or I’d stay here longer.” John kisses Sherlock’s temple, and slides out of bed.

 

“Maybe five more minutes,” Sherlock mumbles as he throws a leg over Mary’s.

 

Five more minutes turns into another hour by the time Sherlock blinks awake.

 

“John is right, you’re adorable when you sleep,” Mary says with a smile as she rolls away and props herself up on an elbow to look at him.

 

“I resent that accusation,” Sherlock drawls as he stretches. “What time is it?”

 

“Five, but we likely have hours before they’re back. I was thinking we could do some shopping and make dinner to kill the time. Thoughts?”

 

“John likes Chinese,” Sherlock muses. “We could do homemade egg rolls and shrimp lo mein I suppose.”

 

“You know how to make that?” I tried egg rolls once, it was a disaster.

 

“I had to research a Chinese restaurant once for a case. Pretended to be a top chef looking for contestants for a new show. I picked up a few things.” Sherlock sits up and grimaces. “Possibly we should shower before being seen in public. You can go first, I’ll make up a shopping list.”

 

They get themselves dressed and ready, and head out to a specialty market Sherlock knows. He amuses Mary by deducing random customers she points out. Somehow they find themselves discussing various codes as a means of communication, which leads to a discussion of methods of blending in and taking on characters as a means to an end. Sherlock finds it fascinating, and is relieved to discover that they get on quite well together without John around.

 

When they get back, they unpack everything and Sherlock begins instructing her on how to best chop the cabbage and vegetables for the filling. She laughs when he is about to show her how to hold the knife for maximum efficiency, and flicks it so that it sticks fast in the plaster of the kitchen wall. Well, what’s one more hole at this point and he supposes he should’ve seen that coming considering her background.

 

Finally everything is prepared, and John has texted to say they will be home soon. The food is keeping warm in the oven and there is nothing to do but wait. They sit on the sofa sipping tea, with Mary’s thigh slung over Sherlock’s and their shoulders touching.

 

“This is nice,” Mary says, clinking her mug against Sherlock’s. “I’ve enjoyed having some time just the two of us.” She kisses his cheek, then studies his expression. “You’ve no sexual inclinations towards me at all, have you?”

 

Sherlock sees no point in avoiding the truth. “No. I feel...comfort, with you. Affection, but no desire. Does that upset you?”

 

She shakes her head. “Not at all. I never suspected you were into women that way. As long as you don’t mind I can’t exactly help a sexual response when it comes to seeing you and John together, or you naked for that matter. I’m more attracted to John, but you’re rather sexy yourself. I like what we have though, and you should know that while I’ll likely tease and flirt with you while John’s not around, I’ll never try for anything sexual. Now, enough of that seriousness. I want to hear the most embarrassing story about John you know.” She turns to face him on the sofa, pulling up her knees and wrapping her arms around them so she can wiggle her toes under his thigh and look at him with a mischievous grin.

 

Victor and John walk in to find Mary and Sherlock leaning against each other on the sofa and wiping their eyes from laughing so hard.

 

“...and then he actually gave her the lilies and took her to a seafood restaurant,” Sherlock finishes gleefully, leaning his head on Mary’s shoulder.

 

“See, I _told_ you they’d be fine,” Victor proclaims as he hangs up his coat.

 

“Actually, this worse than I feared. What have you been telling her?” John asks with an accusing grin as he comes over to kiss first Mary and then Sherlock and flop onto the sofa next to them.

 

“He’s been telling me about all your failed dates and letting me in on how he personally ruined most of them. Clara and the emergency room incident...oh god, I’m lucky he wasn’t around when we started dating aren’t I?”

 

“He was awful! How was I to know she was allergic to lilies and shellfish? He just said, ‘lilies and seafood, John,’ in that cryptic voice of his. I thought it was a suggestion, not a warning!” John pokes Sherlock playfully.

 

Sherlock simply waves his hand dismissively. “She was no good for you regardless. Married twice already.”

 

“See _that_ would’ve been useful information,” John groans. “And you did it on purpose to keep me to yourself, just admit it.”

 

Sherlock avoids a reply by getting up and heading for the kitchen. It’s exactly what he’d been doing. But he needed John more than they did, and none of those women were ever good enough. “Now come, we made dinner!”

 

John allows himself to be distracted by the food, and Victor starts a new thread of conversation by bringing up the time Sherlock was determined to cook a proper souffle and spent an entire twenty-eight hours making a mess of the kitchen and swearing to himself until he got it right.

 

They eat dinner, and drink wine- well, Mary drinks sparkling cider- and Sherlock preens at all of the compliments to his recipes. They finalize their plans and after that they don’t talk about anything special, just trade stories and let the conversation wander where it will.

 

It takes Sherlock over an hour to finally identify the emotion he’s experiencing. It’s...fulfillment. Here with John and Mary and Victor, right now, just sharing a meal and relaxing in each other’s presence, he has everything he didn’t realize he wanted. He wants to drag it out as long as possible, to carefully record every detail in a special room in his mind palace. He’s always scoffed at the idea of a happy place, but suddenly he understands the term completely.

 

When they’ve finished eating, Sherlock goes to light a small fire even though it’s warm out and brings the fresh batch of chocolate chip cookie dough they’d mixed up into the sitting room. Everyone follows, and Mary ends up in John’s lap on Sherlock’s chair while Sherlock sits on a pillow on the floor and leans against their legs. Victor gets John’s chair. They eat spoonfuls of the dough, and Victor bemoans missing Ryan and snaps pictures of the trio as they feed each other bits.  

 

Sherlock pulls out his mobile long enough to send Magnussen a text that reads: _Don’t you just adore pressure points? Meet me at 10am tomorrow, and bring Mary’s files. The game has changed. Oh, and Irene sends her regards._ He follows it with the address to the cafe with outdoor seating they’ve chosen, and hits send. He’s not expecting a reply, but he’s sure the man will show up regardless. He won’t be able to resist.

 

They sit there talking about nothing and everything and Sherlock sighs contentedly at the fingers carding through his hair. Even when the fire goes out they don’t move. All of them are reluctant to end the evening because that means acknowledging the concept of an approaching morning. Sherlock is as confident as he can be that the plan will work, but at the same time he’s never had this much depending on a plan to succeed.

 

Finally Mary is nodding off and even Victor is covering up more frequent yawns, and it’s nearly midnight so they drift off quietly to bed. They take turns using the washroom and Mary slips into just a t-shirt, and Sherlock and John into sleep pants because the mood is definitely not one that invites anything sexual. Sherlock and John tuck themselves in on either side of Mary, since of all of them she’s likely the most anxious about the next day’s events and they want her to feel extra protected. Even if she is the most lethal of the group, Sherlock thinks she will appreciate the gesture. After a few whispered good-nights, John and Mary are soon asleep.

 

Sherlock, unsurprisingly, finds he can’t sleep. He had that nap, and now that there is nothing else to distract him his mind is busy going over all of their plans and trying to consider if they’ve covered all the possible contingencies. He lies there until he’s certain they’re definitely not going to wake up, and then slips back out of bed.

 

He slips on a dressing gown and heads back out to the sitting room. He pokes at the coals so they’re glowing brightly again, and then sits in his chair with his hands steepled under his chin and lets his mind work. He’s so unaware of the world around him that he startles when the door opens and Victor quietly pads back into the room.

 

“I knew I’d find you up,” Victor says softly as he comes over to Sherlock’s chair. “Hmm, too small. Come, we’re moving to the sofa.” He offers his hand and smiles as Sherlock takes it almost unconsciously.  

 

“What are you doing up?” Sherlock asks, blinking back into reality and letting himself be led.

 

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep, so I’m here to sit with you while you overthink things,” Victor replies matter-of-factly. He sits on the sofa and tugs Sherlock down next to him.

 

Sherlock pulls his knees up and wraps his arms around them, and leans gratefully into Victor’s side. He hadn’t realized he didn’t want to be alone until he wasn’t. “I can’t promise it will be one of our more interesting nights,” he points out cautiously.

 

“Stop trying to give me an out, Liam. When you’re ready to get back to bed, I’ll go. Until then you’re stuck with me.” Victor kisses Sherlock’s cheek and then leans his head on his shoulder.

 

Sherlock tilts his head to rest against Victor’s and experiences an increasingly familiar rush of affection. “You’re ridiculous, you realize.”

 

Victor simply hums in reply and snuggles in a bit closer.

 

Sherlock reaches down to lace his fingers with Victor’s and watches the coals until they’ve faded to black.

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand thanks, dear reader, for sticking with this story until the end! It took much longer than planned, but I had a wonderful time playing in this little universe and I hope you enjoyed it as well. So much love to my incredible beta reader and friend, Hedwig-Dordt, for all of her time spent on this story! It is ever so much more cohesive thanks to her efforts.

**Link to[Hedwig-Dordt's fic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Hedwig_Dordt/pseuds/Hedwig_Dordt), which is lovely and worth a read! **

 

Six a.m. comes far too early. Sherlock blinks awake, momentarily confused by the alarm as he’d only crept back to bed and fallen deeply asleep a few hours ago. Then a spike of adrenaline has him sitting up quickly as he remembers what day it is. He nearly dumps John off the bed in the process, but manages to catch him around the middle and prevent an even more rude awakening.

“Shit, well that’s one way to make sure I’m awake,” John grins, his pulse racing from the sensation of nearly falling before he’d even opened his eyes.

“Coffee,” Mary states groggily as she sits up and squints over at them. “This amount of sleep is definitely past the abilities of tea.”

They get ready for the day quickly, and then John makes coffee and toast to bring over to Sherlock and Mary as they sit on the sofa sending off all of the pre-prepared texts to the mercenaries, assassins-for-hire, and general criminal element on their list. Victor comes down shortly, chatting on his mobile and making certain all of the printing plans are finalized. He and John sit at the table, going over everything one last time.  

By seven, all of the texts have been sent and Victor and John are ready to go oversee the printing and distribution of the papers. The four of them stand in front of the door, looking at each other and trying to think of something to say. The nervous tension is very nearly a physical presence.

“I feel like someone should recite the St. Crispin's day speech or something,” Victor finally states, playing nervously with the lapels of his coat.

Sherlock snorts. “We few, we happy few…”

“We band of buggered,” Mary quotes with wry smile.

John and Sherlock merely look confused, but Victor brightens. “You know Buffy! Okay it’s official, I approve of you.”

“Sorry, what?” Sherlock asks.

“Sounds vaguely familiar,” John muses.

“Buffy the Vampire Slayer! It’s this amazing show where- you know what, after this plan works and the bad guy is defeated we’re making you two heathens watch a few episodes. We’ll pick a few good ones, just to catch your interest. Ones with Spike in them. And Sherlock, you’re not allowed to go on about the illogic of the existence of vampires and demons,” Victor warns.

Sherlock is about to protest, but he thinks better of it. It’s certain to be painfully illogical, but maybe something mindless and ridiculous will be just what John and Mary need. He’ll suffer through it, he supposes. “Fine. But if there are horrible, supposedly-Transylvanian accents I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”

“No terrible accents, I promise,” Mary assures him. “Well that’s our evening plans settled. I suppose we’d best go then. This _is_ going to work.” She sounds like she’s trying to convince herself of the fact.

“It will,” John assures her, pulling her in for a hug and giving Sherlock a look that pleads to be agreed with.

“Of course it will. Now you two go, we’ll meet up with you at the hotel.” Sherlock opens the door and tries waving Victor and John though it. John pauses for a last brief yet fierce kiss, and Sherlock takes his hand to squeeze it before he goes.

“And then there were two,” Mary muses softly once Sherlock closes the door.

“Everything is going to be fine, Mary,” Sherlock promises her, and finds that he believes it. He’s gone over everything, and this will work. He’s certain of it. “Now, let’s get you to the hotel.” Sherlock moves to leave, but Mary’s hand on his arm stops him.

She opens her mouth like she’s going to say something, but settles on simply pulling him in for a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Right. Let’s do this, then. I think we should have Indian for dinner. I’ve been craving Indian, what do you think?” She smiles at Sherlock, doing her best to look calm.

Sherlock really wishes he were better at this. At being supportive and sweet and whatever it is Mary needs right now. Acting on combination of what-would-John-do and a sort of gut instinct, he touches the bottom of her chin with one finger and leans down to brush his lips lightly against hers. It’s soft and like everything about her, more comforting than anything else. It seems to work though, because her smile brightens and she looks surprised but happy. “Indian sounds perfect. Now, as we planned.” He opens the door and holds it for her, and they’re off.

The trip to the hotel across from the cafe, where they’ve rented a room with a view of the outdoor seating area, takes until 8:30 am. Sherlock insists on a long, winding route complete with double backs and a few members of his homeless network waiting to assure him no one is following them. He doesn’t want to take the chance that any of Magnussen’s men are tailing them. Finally, they slip in a back entrance and make their way up to their floor by way of a service elevator. Sherlock had stamped down the idea of a sniper rifle, but Mary is carrying her gun and plans to watch the entire exchange out the window. Just in case. Sherlock doubts she could make a shot from that distance, but since it makes her feel better he decides not to argue the point.

Once they’re in the room, Sherlock busies himself with ordering a room-service breakfast since he noticed that Mary barely finished half of her slice of toast. When he turns around, he finds Mary sitting on the edge of the bed and looking at him fondly.

“That was sweet of you. I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat though. Nerves and morning sickness are a devilish combination.”

“Still, you should try. Are you going to be alright? I mean, of course you’re going to be fine,” Sherlock amends at her mildly offended brow raise. “I’ll see you soon then. Right.” Not knowing what else to do, he kisses her on the forehead and heads for the door.

“Kick his arse, love!” Mary calls as he closes the door behind him.

Sherlock takes another forty-five minutes to arrive at the cafe since he takes a winding route involving getting in a taxi well away from the hotel and riding it back. He arrives at 9:30, figuring he may as well be early. He orders a pot of tea and two cups to be brought to the table once his guest arrives. He also pays all of the servers a hundred pounds to ensure that the tables surrounding them will remain empty, citing a need for privacy at a business meeting, and so that no one bothers him about taking up the table for the next half an hour without ordering anything else.

He replies to a text from John informing him everything is going smoothly. He places Irene’s phone on the table. And then, he waits. Which means, he obsesses over all the possible ways this meeting could go. Tries to come up with Magnussen's possible reactions and his responses. Again. Gods, he can’t wait for this to to be over. And it will be, within three hours at most he suspects. It’s a good plan, and besides, he’s taken his own measures to ensure it succeeds.

Magnussen comes striding up to the table at 10:07, and Sherlock merely gives him an indulgent smile as the man’s two bodyguards peel away to hover conspicuously just outside the patio door. “Ah yes, attempting to make me sweat by arriving late. Very B-movie of you,” Sherlock smirks.

Magnussen smiles as if strings are attached to the corners of his mouth, as it doesn’t even begin to reach his eyes. “Let me guess. You’ve come to trade Irene’s phone,” he flicks his fingers vaguely towards it, “For this.” He takes out the jump drive and places it on the table.

Sherlock waits for a server to set the tea- a pot of fragrant Earl Grey- between them, and then leave. He pours some into Magnussen’s cup, and then his own, before he replies. “Is that really what you think of me? That I’d come up with such an _obvious_ plan? Not to mention boring. And over-done. Though considering the blackmail and thug routine you have going I’m not sure why I’m surprised. I honestly had hoped you’d turn out to be an interesting adversary.” He tutts and takes a sip of his tea as he leans back in his seat to examine Magnussen’s reaction. There. Barely-perceptible tension of the jaw, elevated pulse visible in his neck. The man is irritated. Sherlock grins.

“I had hoped for the same, but _Mary_...well, the woman who calls herself Mary at any rate. Breaking in to steal this back. The whole spy outfit. So lacking in originality. Though I have to admit her shooting you was a delightful turn of events, though still not what I’d call surprising, considering her history. Do you know what’s on this, Sherlock? I’m guessing not, if you’re here defending her.” Magnussen pours a cup of tea and sips it as well as he watches Sherlock closely for his reaction.

“Whatever it is, she’s good enough in bed that I don’t care,” Sherlock replies with a sly wink. He’s extremely gratified at the half-second of genuine shock on the other man’s face. “Better than Irene even, and you know that’s saying something.”

Magnussen’s calculating smile falters even more noticeably. “You don’t have any sexual pressure points, and definitely not involving women. You’re lying, Sherlock Holmes. Whatever you’re trying to convince me of it’s not going to work,” he states, though his voice lacks its usual conviction. He takes another, larger sip of tea.

“Well that’s neither here nor there, though it does amuse me you’ll go to your grave wondering. Moving on. I _had_ considered a trade but then I realized that to ensure Mary’s secrets, and Mary herself, stayed safe, well...your continued existence is problematic.” He lets his gaze go cold.

“Do you plan to kill me right here then? Empty threats don’t suit you.” Magnussen shakes his head, clearly disbelieving.

“No, they don’t. But I don’t need to be the one to do it. Irene told me a little secret about your secrets,” Sherlock whispers conspiratorially. “Let’s play a game. Let’s play, ‘what if.’ What if everyone you were blackmailing thought you were selling their secrets? What if they then discovered you were planning, instead, on revealing said secrets to an intrepid reporter?  How long do you think you’d last?”

Magnussen’s eyes go slightly wild, and his hand grips the handle of his mug so tightly his knuckles go white. Sherlock can see pieces clicking terrifyingly into place. Clearly he’s heard the rumors of his alleged sale of information.

“You’ve no proof,” Magnussen states, his voice tight.

“And why would I need a trifling thing like that? Isn’t the news wonderful that way?” Sherlock pulls his copy of the newspaper article out of his suit coat and unfolds it, then sets it on the table. The headline, _Charles Augustus Magnussen, Puppetmaster,_ stands out in damning large print. “Apparently you’re going to give a live interview tomorrow, detailing how you’ve decided to repent of your life of crime and blackmail. It’s said to be very...revealing.”

Magnussen picks up the pages, his hands struggling not to tremble with rage. “You can’t. One call and I can still end her,” he threatens. He blinks hard, and appears to shake off a sudden bout of exhaustion.

Right. Time to move, Sherlock considers as his own limbs begin feeling rather heavy. “Oh I doubt that. Who would work for you now?” He pulls his mobile out and scrolls for a moment. “Ah, you’re trending on Twitter,” he grins, though it’s not true yet. He’s certain it will be soon. “There are a few thousand of those being distributed as we speak. In short, _run_.” He reaches out to snatch the jump drive and phone. “Oh, and I’ll be taking these. Ta now!” He gets up and strides quickly back through the door into the cafe as Magnussen’s bodyguards walk quickly towards their employer. He presses an extra hundred pounds into Billy’s hands, filing away the data that he makes a fair barista, and keeps walking.

Sherlock walks directly into the hotel, knowing it’s past the point of mattering if Magnussen knows where he is. He makes it to the elevator and presses the floor button, then slaps himself in the face hard as his vision begins to swim. He stumbles out and to the door of their rented room, where he knocks and leans sleepily against it. When it opens, he tumbles in and only avoids hitting the floor because Mary catches him. “It worked,” he mumbles before passing out completely.

Sherlock swims slowly back to consciousness. The first thing he notes is the sensation of fingers carding through his hair. Second, John’s voice, his tone a complex combination of irritation, nerves and a hint of fondness.

“Come on Sherlock, open your eyes you dickhead!” John demands.

“Give him a break, he’s just poisoned himself for us!” Mary retorts, an eye-roll audible in her voice.

“What she said,” Sherlock mumbles, shifting his head in her lap and blinking his eyes open carefully. He groans when he attempts to sit up because ouch, he feels like he’s hung over and neither his stomach nor his head is particularly happy with him. “And the term is technically drugged, not poisoned.”

“Christ, you scared the hell out of me!” John accuses, coming to sit next to them on the bed and leaning down to kiss Sherlock’s lips, then his cheek and forehead. “What part of us making a plan together did you not understand?!”

Sherlock cringes a bit. He realized John would be upset, but better to beg forgiveness and all of that. “It was a good plan. I just needed to be certain of it. I couldn’t allow him the time to make a call and ruin everything, and in order to get him to drink the tea I had to drink it as well. It’s really mostly harmless, Billy is an excellent chemist and-” John’s incredulous look cuts him off. “Right. I’m...well, I’m not sorry, but I do feel bad about worrying you.”

John rubs his eyes. “I got a text from an unknown number saying-” He pulls out his mobile and scrolls for a moment. “ _It’s Bill, the one who’s arm you broke. Sherlock is fine, I was very careful with the dosage. The chemical makeup of the drug is in his pocket, he says you’ll want to know what he took. Just give him an hour_. Worried is not the term I’d use!”  

“It was all very dramatic and touching,” Victor points out from his sprawl on a nearby chair. “He swore a lot and took your vitals, and even tried the Sleeping Beauty thing. Personally, I find it all rather romantic and I’m taking notes for my pitch to HBO. Mary, how do you feel about being played by someone like Angelina Jolie?”

“Not helping, Victor!” John attempts to growl, but the effect is rather ruined by the fact that he’s trying not to smile and failing.

“Honestly, there’s no point being upset at him. It’s Sherlock, ridiculous plans are inevitable. Besides, it _worked_ didn't it?” Victor points out with a grin that is clearly meant to convey excitement but betrays a hint of regret.

Sherlock perks up immediately. “It did?”

John nods, finally giving into a full smile. “Mycroft already called you, and then me when you didn’t answer. Wanted to know what we knew about a mystery article making his life difficult and the fact that Magnussen was mysteriously found dead in his hospital room. Though not as mysterious as the media will make it out to be, considering what they found in his IV drip. I told him I’ve no idea what he’s talking about. He wasn’t fooled, obviously. So how did someone find him so quickly?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I may have sent a few tips regarding where he would likely be found this morning…so it’s over?”

“It’s over,” Mary agrees, leaning down to kiss Sherlock’s forehead.

“Feels a bit anti-climactic, doesn’t it?” Sherlock states. "Though the drama was necessary. Now the police won't be looking terribly hard into why he was killed."

“Maybe to _you_ danger addicts, but I think it’s just sinking in that I contributed to a man’s death,” Victor admits.

“Well, he wasn’t a very good man,” John points out with a wink at Sherlock.

“No, no he really wasn’t,” Sherlock grins back.

“Well I know that, and that he was controlling hundreds of lives, but _still_...and you’re all over there all lovey-dovey and I just don’t think I’m cut out for this sort of thing on a regular basis. And I miss Ryan. He’s an amazing hugger,” Victor muses wistfully.

Sherlock sits up groggily, pats John and Mary on the legs, and walks crookedly over to Victor to flop gracelessly into his lap. He tucks his head into Victor’s neck and holds him close. “I’m a poor substitute I know, but still. I know this is difficult for you, so thank you. For coming here. For helping us.” It’s sappy, he knows it is, but he also knows Victor will like it and deserves any comfort he can get right now, so he lifts his head enough to kiss his friend on the nose. “I...well, you know.”

“What? No, I’ve no idea,” Victor replies, eyes wide with feigned innocence.

Sherlock huffs. “You’re insufferable. I love you, you arse,” he mumbles into Victor’s neck.

“You all witnessed it!” Victor gloats teasingly. “Sherlock is a huge softy at heart.”

“I take it back. I hate you,” Sherlock grumbles.

“Alright you two, let’s get out of here and go home. We have Indian takeout to buy and Buffy to watch,” Mary declares. “I was thinking of having it for dinner, but lunch is even better. We can even buy extra for when Lestrade drops by asking if you know anything about Magnussen. Mycroft said he’d tell him to leave you out of this one, but you know he won’t listen.”

“It’s fine, I’ll distract him by asking about Molly,” Sherlock says with a dismissive wave. “Are you going to be okay?” he asks Victor, eyeing his friend closely for any major signs of distress.

“Probably. In a bit. It’s not that I’m not glad it worked, and that you’re all safe now, because I am. And I don’t want to take it back or anything. It’s just a lot, you know? I’ll just call Ryan when we get back, that’ll help. He knows what’s going on of course, couldn’t keep this kind of thing a secret.”

“And he’s okay with it?” Sherlock asks, suddenly worried about what it could mean for Victor- well all of them really- if he’s not.

Victor nods. “Don’t worry, Liam, he’s not going to tell anyone. He understands; likely better than I do really. He has a thing against bullies. Let’s just say it wasn’t particularly easy growing up in the Bronx.”

“Hmm, for a homosexual, artistic boy I imagine not,” Sherlock muses.

“For anyone in that general area, but yeah, that didn’t help. He does a lot of volunteer work there now, working with kids who are having a rough time of it. Lets me know when the local organizations need a new building, or new beds for the shelters, some scholarships for better schools, that sort of thing. He really is a better person than I am,” Victor states, a faraway look on his face. “Damn, I may need to schedule my flight home for tomorrow.”

“Well don’t be a stranger,” John says as he gets up and helps Mary off of the bed. “I actually think I’ll miss you. May take you up on that calling to vent about that one offer,” he winks as he waves towards Sherlock.

“I- that’s- actually a good idea,” Sherlock reluctantly admits. He’s actually thrilled they’ve become friends, not that he’d actually say it.

“Christmas!” John exclaims. “You should both come over for Christmas! Mycroft invites me every year and I always decline. But if you and Ryan were to come as well, can you just imagine the look on that smarmy git’s face? Between the two of you, and the three of us, he’ll be positively nauseous!”

Sherlock brightens at the idea. It’s brilliant. Mycroft would positively _hate_ it. And Mummy would so love a crowded house on Christmas. “Yes, do. We’d love to have you.” His smirk is positively evil.  

They don’t make it out of the hotel room for another hour, since John insists on Sherlock drinking a few glasses of water and checking his vitals, and making sure he can walk in a straight line before agreeing they can go back to 221b rather than his clinic for more strenuous testing. Sherlock gripes the entire time, and though he’d never say it aloud the attention is rather pleasant.

They stop for Indian food on the way back, and by the time Lestrade bangs on the door they’re all four of them piled onto the sofa, comfortably full and snugged in beneath a few blankets.  

“It’s open, no need to be so dramatic!” Sherlock calls, tucking his head further into John’s neck and determining to make this a short conversation. Victor was about to start another episode, and he finds he’s unexpectedly intrigued by the show.

Lestrade takes two steps into the room before taking in the scene and freezing. “Oh, no. You lot have never been sitting there lazing and watching telly all day! When Mycroft calls and specifically tells me you’re not to be involved in the investigation- and I’m not even bothering telling you what investigation since you bloody well know- it means you’re in it up to your eyeballs, Sherlock. Which means at the very least John is as well.”

“Just because I know something, doesn’t mean I’ve any obligation to tell you,” Sherlock drawls,

rolling his eyes at Lestrade’s suspicious demeanor. “But none of us killed him, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Lestrade walks over, scoots the laptop they were using to watch Buffy over, and sits on the coffee table. He looks at each of them closely, then nods to himself and seems to come to a decision. “I’m not _implying_ anything. I’m also definitely _not_ implying I could help...move the investigation in a specific direction, if that sort of thing was necessary.” He looks at Sherlock significantly.

Sherlock blinks at Lestrade in surprise, and experiences an unfamiliar sense of gratitude. He blames John and Mary for his ridiculous emotional state, really he does.

John cuts in when Sherlock takes too long to respond. “He’s re-booting, I’ve seen that look before. We really, truly can’t say anything specific. Just know...a lot of people are safe now.” He gives Mary a significant look. “But thank you.”

Mary reaches out and pats Lestrade on the knee. “You’re a good man. Don’t worry about your investigation, sounds like a clear case of murder. I hear he was about to reveal a good number of secrets. I imagine any number of people would be less-than-pleased by that. Now, would you like anything to drink? Staying a while?”

“I still have that second bottle of Scotch!” Victor interjects brightly.

“No, still haven’t recovered from the last time,” Lestrade grimaces. “I should be going regardless, I don’t want to get stuck working too late today.”

“Hot date?” Victor asks with a knowing smirk.

“If you must know, Molly agreed to have dinner with me,” Lestrade replies with a nervous sort of smile.

“Well of course she did,” Sherlock says, finally recovering. “She has abysmal taste in men historically, honestly she could give John a run for his money where bad dates are concerned- just let me finish!” he protests at the four sets of judging eyes. “I was just going to point out that when a man who deserves her finally asked, it’s no surprise she jumped at the chance. You will of course, treat her well,” he adds, narrowing his eyes.

“Are you- are you seriously giving me the ‘break her heart and I’ll break your arm’ speech?” Lestrade asks with a grin.

“Why no, I would _never_ imply something so dramatic,” Sherlock replies, carefully keeping his expression serious. “On a completely unrelated note, I know the precise pressure required to snap a man’s neck.” He grins at Lestrade, and is thrilled to see a flash of genuine worry in the man’s eyes.

“Right. Well you needn’t worry,” Lestrade assures as he gets up.

Sherlock considers for a moment and then decides what the hell, the man deserves to be happy. Gods but he’s turned into a hopeless sap.  “Daisies. Carrot cake. Riesling. Street fairs. Period dramas. Silver, not gold. Bad 80’s pop music. Thai food.”

Lestrade looks confused. “Sorry, what?”

“Her favorites. Obviously,” Sherlock replies before turning to snuggle back into John to wait for the show to resume.

“Oh. Right. Thanks, then. You all enjoy your day,” Lestrade says with a bemused smile as he waves and then exits.

“Awww..” Mary croons, “That was-”

“No it wasn’t!” Sherlock interrupts.

“So sweet!” she finishes gleefully.

“And thoughtful,” John adds, ruffling Sherlock’s hair.

“You’re just such a sweetheart,” Victor croons teasingly.

“I loathe all of you,” Sherlock grumps. “I’m not sweet, I’m...terrifying.”

Mary starts giggling. “Oh my god, he’s Spike!”

“He is!” Victor agrees mirthfully. “Oh we’re definitely watching ‘Lover’s Walk’ next.”  

“I’m not sure I want to know,” Sherlock huffs in a put-upon voice.

“Don’t worry love, it’s a good thing. He’s super hot. Actually gives you a run for your money in the cheekbone territory,” she muses.

John shrugs. “I’m in. And don’t worry, anyone who’s not us still finds you terrifying,” he promises, turning to kiss Sherlock on the forehead.

Sherlock grins into John’s shoulder as Victor tucks his feet close and Mary reaches her arm behind John’s back to pet his hair. It’s quite frankly nauseating domestic. And It’s perfect.

 

**************************************************************************************************

Christmas Eve

Five hours into “family time” and Sherlock is shocked to discover that he has yet to feel like turning anything into a science experiment just to occupy his mind. It probably has something to do with the company being so much more enjoyable than usual. Also, he’s having  a wonderful time watching Mycroft poke at his mobile as if hoping for news of WWIII and being constantly disappointed, as nothing short of that would let Mummy give him leave to escape.

Mummy has, of course, taken to John and Mary immediately. Especially Mary, who already has a bag to take home filled with old baby blankets and a few books that the boys had enjoyed as children. She’s even been invited to learn the secret of Mummy’s dressing as John plays Chess with his dad, and Mycroft is relegated to peeling potatoes. Sherlock, as is traditional, is tasked with making the mulled wine. He rarely drinks it, but it’s close enough to chemistry that he’s exceptionally good at creating the perfect combination of spices.

Wine complete, Sherlock is leaning against the stove and idly stirring as he refrains from giving John advice- he’s going to be in checkmate in four moves- and waiting for Victor and Ryan to arrive. His mum looks over at him and gives him a smiles that manages to be fond, approving, and _you-are-fooling-no-one-my boy_ all at once. He’s thankfully saved from making any ridiculous emotional display, like smiling back in acknowledgement, by a knock at the door. “I’ll get it!” he calls, scrambling out of the room.

He opens the door and is practically bowled over by a giant pile of parcels. Victor’s voice calls out from somewhere on the other side. “Happy Christmas Eve! Alright darling, you may have had a point about not carrying it all in one go,” he admits as the parcels bang against the door frame in his attempt to enter.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and grabs a pile of boxes in an attempt the help, which turns out to be a tactical error. Before he can catch them, they come cascading down with Victor in their wake, and he ends up blinking up at the ceiling with Victor somewhere around the region of his knees. He huffs and props himself up on his elbows to find Victor laughing and holding his hand out for the- he struggles for and adjective and lands on pulchritudinous- man leaning down to help him up.

“I always have a point, querido,” Ryan intones teasingly as he pulls Victor up. “You’re just lucky I enjoy being proven right.” He taps Victor lightly on the nose before turning to offer a hand to Sherlock. “You must be the one he goes on about wanting to photograph me with,” he says with an easy smile.

It takes Sherlock a moment to realize he’s just staring while deductions flood his mind. _Definite New York accent, but with a hint of Portuguese. Bilingual. Parents were immigrants. Painter, using acrylic at the moment. Plays guitar. Left handed. Runner. Ex-smoker. Nervous._ “Ah. Yes, that does sound likely.” He takes the offered hand and lets it go as quickly as possible. He has a vague idea that continued contact will only give Victor _ideas_. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Ryan Alvez. Thank you for inviting us, Sherlock. This is a gorgeous home. I’ll need to get Victor to take some pictures so I can use it for inspiration.” He looks around at the room as if it really is something impressive, rather than a perfectly average country house.

“It’s not my home. And it’s frightfully dull, really, hardly out of the ordinary. Though I do have a theory that the previous tenants were part of a smuggling ring based on some scratch patterns on the cellar walls, so there’s that I suppose. You no doubt think it’s quaint, or some other horrible adjective. Well, obviously, given the biscuit crumbs and tea stain on your shirt. Victor has clearly been trying to seduce you with all things you Americans view as charmingly British, and a cottage fits right in. Failure, that, as it’s obvious there’s been no sexual activity in the last few hours at least,” Sherlock rambles before pausing when he notices the delighted look on Ryan’s face.

“He’s exactly like you described,” Ryan marvels to Victor as he begins picking up packages and setting them by the small decorated tree. “I understand already.”

“What’s to understand?” Sherlock huffs, uncertain if he should be offended or not.

“Why you captivate him so,” Ryan replies with an easy smile.

“Stop it, his head doesn’t need to get any bigger!” John protests as he enters the room. “John Watson, you must be Ryan,” he says as he holds out a hand.

“Ah, the man Victor swears becomes more attractive the longer you look at him, like a complicated piece of art.” Ryan nods as he shakes John’s hand and holds it a bit longer than typical as he cocks his head and studies John for a few moments.

“Well his head doesn’t need to get any bigger either,” Sherlock snarks, trying and failing to tamp down a tendril of - _something_ \- at the way Ryan is studying John.

Ryan breaks into an apologetic smile and drops John’s hand. “Sorry. It’s an artist thing, I tend to forget my manners when I run into someone with an intriguing aspect.”

“He really does,” Victor adds from where he is piling the gifts under the tree.

“You really do know how to pick them, Victor,” John laughs. He glances at Sherlock’s expression and blinks in surprise. “You’re jealous! You’re actually jealous. It’s adorable.”

“I’m not- don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock gripes, crossing his arms. “So. Just hang your coats there and come into the kitchen. Mummy is inordinately pleased to have so many guests this year and she’s no doubt preparing tea and wondering why I’ve not introduced you yet since you’ve been here an entire two minutes.” He moves to step towards the kitchen, but John’s hand on his waist stops him.

John glances towards the kitchen, and then pulls Sherlock in for a brief but heated kiss. “He’s hot, but you’re hotter,” he whispers before winking and sauntering off into the already-crowded kitchen.

The last time he was here with Mycroft and his parents, Sherlock had found it to be intolerably dull and a waste of time he could have been using to solve cases or conduct experiments. Now, he finds the experience to be utterly captivating. He’s quieter than usual, he knows, but he’s so busy observing and making mental notes and discovering new things about everyone in the room that he’s too occupied to even make his usual scathing comments. He can’t even bring himself to _pretend_ to hate it, which should upset him, but somehow doesn’t.

He watches his mum fall hopelessly in love with both Victor and Ryan by the time they’ve finished their first cups of tea. Notices how she blushes and basks in all of the compliments to her baking and decorating. He’s always known she was brilliant, but listening to her animated dinner conversation with Ryan about the mathematics of perspective in art, noting how she lights up like he does when confronted with a murder, is a revelation. He suspects in some ways, he’ll never truly understand her as well as this near-perfect stranger.

He watches as his father and John discuss a winding string of topics related to military service, guns, and tactics, as his father also served in his youth and is an avid military historian. Even Mycroft gives up his air of reluctance and is drawn into the discussion. His father may not be as brilliant as his mum in many ways, but he’s not stupid either. Seeing the growing respect in his eyes for John makes the confused-yet-accepting nod directed his way all the more gratifying when John’s hand drifts absently over to rest on his thigh during dinner.

He watches Victor and Mary glancing over to check on their spouses while helping with dishes, as the others are engrossed in post-dinner conversation. Sherlock dries what is handed to him and listens to their quiet, conspiring talk regarding a photo session between Sherlock and Mary for John’s next birthday. This, he suspects, must be what people are going on about when they talk about the holiday spirit. It’s...surprisingly nice. When no one else is looking, he even leans down to brush Mary’s hair back and place a kiss below her ear, just where she likes it. She smiles at him fondly, then flicks water in his face and laughs delightedly at his shocked expression. Sherlock refuses to admit he likes it, but considering the ‘that’s so adorable’ look on his mother’s face he’s fooling exactly no one.

After finishing with the dishes, Sherlock is leaning against the doorway simply observing again when Ryan sidles up to him.

“You know, jealousy is a perfectly normal human emotion,” Ryan says in a low voice, leaning against the wall.

Ryan is so close their shoulders are brushing, but he’s projecting such obvious calm and nonchalance that his proximity doesn’t make Sherlock uncomfortable. The comment, however, does. “I know that,” he snaps. “Did you have a point or are you just here to spout off random data?”

Ryan only smiles gently and shrugs. “Victor tells me you don’t always realize which human emotions are considered acceptable at any given moment. I was just pointing out that in this case, it’s normal.”

“I’m not jealous,” Sherlock retorts. He’s not, really. Just still a bit... _something_...about the way Mary looks at Ryan appreciatively, and oddly the way Victor is clearly enamored of Ryan. But it’s not _jealousy_.

“I didn’t say I meant you,” Ryan replies lightly. “Maybe _I’m_ the one a bit green over Victor’s affection for _you_.”

Sherlock looks at him in surprise. “Me? I’m uncertain why. He’s obviously completely and demonstrably in love with you.”

“ _There_ it is with the human emotion,” Ryan nods. “I know he’s in love with me, that’s why I wasn’t worried about him cutting out for London at a moment’s notice when he heard you were alive and needed him. I trust him. But that doesn’t mean I’m not a bit jealous of his devotion to you. You have history together I don’t share. It’s not exactly that I’m upset about it, but I’m still envious of that time you shared all those years ago. I wasn’t sure I’d like you, honestly, but there’s something…compelling about you. I can’t seem to dislike you now that I’ve met you.”

“I’m trying to decide if that’s a compliment,” Sherlock admits, finding himself unusually caught off-guard by the conversation.

“I’m just saying that maybe I’m a bit jealous of you, and maybe- I don’t know- you’re a bit jealous of me. Or not, I’m just saying. But you seem happy. Well, it’s hard to tell with you but I’ve been watching they way you look at them. So how about we just decide we’re two of the luckiest men on the planet, pretend we’re not jealous idiots, and decide to be friends.” Ryan holds out his hand and gives Sherlock an encouraging smile.

”Well. We do seem to be stuck with each other,” Sherlock acknowledges, watching as John and Victor engage in some sort of juvenile mock sword fight involving the prizes from the holiday crackers. “I accept your proposition,” he states, taking Ryan’s hand and shaking it. Honestly, he’d been prepared to dislike Ryan on principle, but he can’t do it either. “As long as you’re good to him,” he warns.

“Done,” Ryan grins, holding onto Sherlock’s hand and gently and lifting it, shifting so their fingers are laced lightly together. “Aesthetically, I can see why Victor is so insistent on photographing us together,” he observes.

“I fail to see why melanin contrasts fascinate people so. If we let him, he’s likely to set us up like human chess pieces or something. You know how he gets when his creativity gets the best of him,” Sherlock complains, pulling his hand away.

“And _you_ know how he gets when he has an idea in his head. We may as well resign ourselves to the inevitable,” Ryan replies.

“Fine,” Sherlock concedes. But only if he does agree to shoot Mary and I as well. She wants it for a birthday present for John.” Now that he thinks about it, that’s actually a brilliant idea. He gives Ryan one of his trademark smirks.

“You’re alright,” Ryan grins, clapping Sherlock on the shoulder companionably before wandering away to swipe Victor’s paper crown.

Finally Victor declares he’s too excited to wait any longer, and so it’s time for gifts. On the way out, he notices the mistletoe dangling in the entranceway to the sitting room. He pauses and bats his eyelashes dramatically at Ryan.

“Oh go on dear, it’s tradition!” Mummy encourages Ryan, her voice wine-warm and happy.

Ryan obliges by dipping Victor and kissing him dramatically, which elicits a loud whistle from John and clapping from the ladies while Sherlock rolls his eyes and Mycroft looks as if he’s just swallowed boxed wine.

Mummy follows them, only to be caught by the wrist by her husband.

“I’ll not be shown up in my own home!” he declares before pulling her close and dipping her as well as he can for a kiss.

She comes up blushing and laughing, even more so when he pinches her arse playfully as they go to find a seats in the recently rearranged sitting room, now with extra chairs and a shifted sofa so they can all see the crackling fire and glittering tree.

Mycroft practically runs under, clearly fearing Mummy will assign a person at random to kiss him if he doesn’t get out quickly.

“Don’t be like that Myc, it’s not our fault you decided not to bring your mystery woman. You’re trying to hide it, but a mother always knows!” Mummy declares, shaking her head at Mycroft.

“Do try to call me by the name you gave me,” Mycroft growls, crossing his legs and trying not to look embarrassed. “And I’m certain I’ve no idea what you’re going on about.”

Sherlock gives his brother a secret smirk. He _knew_ getting that fascinating woman from the chat room in contact with Mycroft was a brilliant idea. He also knows Mycroft has no intention of sharing any details with him. Which is fine, because that way he can continue pretending he doesn’t care whether his brother is happy or not, and all is right with the world.

John is next, and he doesn’t even attempt passing before drawing Mary close to kiss her passionately.

“I know, you’d drop me if you tried dipping me at this weight,” she says playfully before yelping and running away as he attempts to chase her to try again. He then pauses, his eyes flicking to Sherlock who is still in the kitchen. He has a conflicted expression on his face as he opens his mouth as if to say something, closes it again and licks his lips. He shifts to step away, then pauses and shifts back.

“Sherlock, be a dear and put the poor man out of his misery,” Mummy calls. “If I was your age I’d go for both of them too!” She giggles. “Oh, possibly that’s enough wine for me.”

Sherlock decides there’s nothing for it, squares his shoulders, grabs a wide-eyed John and dips him just slightly for a soft kiss, and then another. “I’ll have you all know that mistletoe first became known in Norse mythology for killing Baldur, grandson of Thor, and this is a macabre tradition. Though now that I think of it, I rather approve of kissing beneath a murder weapon,” he states as he goes to sit next to Mary on the sofa. He’s thankful that his blush is unlikely to show up in the firelight, and wills his heart rate back to normal as John comes to sit on his other side. “So. Presents,” he says, ignoring Mummy’s frankly ridiculously sappy expression.

Mycroft gets all the men pocket watches and the women silk scarves. He simply rolls his eyes when Sherlock comments that his personal assistant outdid herself this year.

His parents give them each a book, as is tradition, and Mary is especially touched to receive Mummy’s personal worn copy of _Wuthering Heights,_ complete with an inscription she chooses not to share but is clearly touching.

Sherlock, John, and Mary present his parents with tickets for dinner and a hot air balloon ride, which seems to thrill them. Sherlock feels a rush of accomplishment at Mummy’s pleased expression, having remembered a comment she made when reading him _The Wizard of Oz_ decades ago.

They give Ryan an antique set of paint-making supplies that delights him, and Victor a series of old black-and-white photographs- mainly very early erotica- that had caught Sherlock’s interest while on a case. He’s of course thrilled.

Finally Victor, who had insisted he and Ryan go last, bounces out of his seat and over to the remaining gifts. Ryan helps him, muttering fondly that Victor is going to break something vibrating like that, as they hand what is obviously a large wrapped painting to both Sherlock’s parents and the trio on the sofa. “Well, open them! Ryan did them, obviously, but I directed the scenes.”

For a few moments after the paper is removed there is absolute silence. Mummy is the first to gasp and wipe away a tear, but all she can manage is, “Oh, oh my dear, it’s...oh.”

Sherlock takes in the painting balanced on their knees, and even he is at a loss for words. The painting wasn’t done from a photograph, but Ryan had clearly practiced their images until he could capture them perfectly however he wanted. It’s possibly the most intimate portrait he’s ever seen, for all of its innocence at a glance.

It depicts the three of them in the grass, sitting on a blanket with various picnic implements and toys scattered about. There is an out-of-focus house in the background, and man-made beehives at a distance. Mary is leaning on John’s shoulder, and Sherlock is leaning back on one hand- his fingertips barely touching John’s- while the other hand is holding a magnifying glass up to what must be a beetle on a flower. A little girl in a yellow dress is bending over to look so that her blonde hair is falling down over her face.

“I don’t know what she’ll look like, but I’m guessing light hair is a safe bet,” Ryan points out, his tone uncertain.

“It’s beautiful!” Mary exclaims, finding her voice first and jumping up to give him a hug. “It’s perfect.”

“It’s- yeah. Thank you,” John adds, his voice gruff with emotion.

“Why bees?” Sherlock asks before thinking it may be a bit not good to question the artist.

“Sherlock!” Mary chides.

“ _I_ can explain the bees,” Victor declares proudly. “Sherlock went on and on about them once he found a hive that summer we were together. Said he’d raise them someday and experiment with something something I stopped listening at that point. And that,” he points at the house, “is where my godchild will live someday.”

“Godchild?” John asks dubiously.

“Well who else?! I’ll make an excellent fairy godfather!” Victor states as if it’s perfectly obvious.

“Of course you will,” Mary assures him, looking at John as if daring him to contradict her.

“Looks like I’ll be working extra hours if that’s where we’re meant to live,” John comments as he eyes the open expanses of land around the house in the painting.

“Nah, you can just sell the one you’ve got when you’re ready to get out of the city,” Victor replies with the tone of someone who has a secret.

“Sorry, what?” John asks confusedly.

“Oh that’s right, I forgot to tell you about _my_ Christmas present!” Victor pulls out an envelope and hands it to Sherlock with a flourish.

Sherlock opens it, and then stares in rare shock at the deed.

“I bought you 221b! Well, and the place next door with the married ones. They were more than happy to move when they heard my offer. It’s being renovated into one large home starting on the second so you may need to spend a few weeks at that place John and Mary insist on keeping, though it’s usually empty. Don’t worry, Mrs. Hudson knows she can stay. Though she was considering a long trip with the money,” Victor muses.

“Victor, you can’t just-” Sherlock begins as the first thing he considers is the mess it’s going to make of his things. But then he stops, recalling this is about more than just him now. Besides, maybe this way he’ll have a room just for his experiments. “Strike that, you can.”

“But- that’s too much!” Mary exclaims, nearly on top of John who is protesting as well.

“Too late, I already did it! And let me tell you, those contractors are _not_ giving back their unlimited lines of credit so you may as well just say thank you and reserve one of the spare bedrooms for when we come to visit,” Victor replies with a grin. “I’ve got the layout all set, but Mary can be in charge of interior decorating. Neither of you are to be trusted, considering the state of that place.”

“Just say thank you, he’s impossible to deal with once his mind has been made up,” Sherlock says. “Besides, it’s hardly going to put him in the poor house if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“He’s not wrong. Took the advice of one of the kids at Boys Town and invested in Marvel. I’m thinking of hiring him on as a consultant,” Victor muses.

“Thank you then,” John says, clearly still overwhelmed.

“You’re welcome anytime,” Mary assures, getting back up to hug Victor.

“You know, Victoria is a lovely name…” Victor points out.

“Pushing it,” Mary warns with a teasing smile.

“Fine,” Victor huffs. “So, you like your painting then?” he asks as he turns to the elder Holmes’.

Mummy turns it carefully to face out. “It’s our wedding picture, but it looks like a photograph that was taken just yesterday,” she says, her voice filled with emotion. She points to a black-and-white picture on the mantle.

The painting depicts her and her husband as they are leaving the church, holding hands with flowers and rice raining down on them. They are laughing and happy, and wearing the same clothing as the picture but they look exactly as they do now, at their current ages.

“Sherlock told Victor this was your favorite, and he got me a copy. I wanted to show how in love you still are- how it is still as if you are newly married, between you. I can see it’s true,” Ryan says as he takes in the way they are sitting close and Mr. Holmes still looks at his wife as if she hung the moon.

“It’s lovely, my darling boy,” Mummy says as she gets up to hug Ryan tightly.

“It is. You’re very good,” Mr. Holmes says, getting up to shake Ryan’s hand and pat him on the back.

“Thank you, sir,” Ryan replies, clearly relieved his work is appreciated.

“And from me,” Victor declares like a talk show host, “A trip to New York!” he hands them another envelope. “Sherlock says you’ve never been, and you simply must if you enjoy travelling as much as he says. We’ll show you around, you’ll love it! And again, non-refundable so just enjoy. Consider it a thank you for putting up with us for a few days if you must.”

They blink at him in surprise for a few moments before hugging him all over again. “It’s too much, but thank you,” Mummy says.

“Ah, and Mycroft….” Victor tosses him a wrapped box. “You’ll be the envy of the Diogenes Club if you bring some of that Scotch to share,” Victor assurs as he watches Mycroft’s pleased expression when he opens the wrapping. “So, presents complete. Now it’s time to have some more wine and dance while Sherlock plays for us!”

Sherlock had been expecting this, so he gets up and retrieves his violin from where it was resting in its case near the tree. He plays a series of songs fit for dancing, and watches his friends and family with an increasingly familiar sensation of contentment. It’s still surprising, as if his nervous system hasn’t quite become accustomed to this new and near-constant sensation of happiness. Gods, but he’s become as saccharine as Victor.

His parents dance with the smooth confidence of years.  Victor lets Ryan- who is clearly the better dancer- lead while he messes up the rhythm constantly by shaking his hips ridiculously. Ryan simply shakes his head indulgently and laughs, and it wouldn’t take Sherlock to tell he’s completely besotted. John is his usual endearingly smooth-yet-awkward self when it comes to dancing, and Sherlock is reminded of the utter misery of teaching him how to dance when he thought he was losing him to Mary. Even Mycroft is coerced- under duress- into dancing with first Mary and then Mummy, and proves to be remarkably light on his feet.

Once everyone has stopped dancing and begun blinking sleepily at the fire, Sherlock puts his violin down. Mummy declares she’s tired and will see them all in the morning, and she slips out of the room with her husband in tow. Ryan declares he’s still jet-lagged and could stand to sleep as well, and Mycroft says he can show them the bedroom they’ll be staying in, and heads out with an air of relief.

Victor is about to sit follow, but he pauses and heads back to where Sherlock is shutting his violin case. “One last gift,” Victor whispers into his ear before kissing him fondly on the nose. He holds up an ipod with a speaker attached, and hits play. The opening strains of the song Sherlock wrote for John and Mary’s first dance fill the air as Victor exits, leaving the three of them alone in the room.

Oh, well this is just...disgustingly romantic. Really. Sherlock is about to make a comment regarding said disgusting romanticism when he looks up and the words stick in his throat. John is kneeling next to him with a plain silver ring resting on his open palm. His stomach does a little flip.

“Sherlock. I can’t ask you to marry me, not really. But I can still give you this, so you know I would like to. It’s not even for your ring finger, I know that would be too sentimental for you. You can wear it on your thumb. It even has a track inside so it spins, for when you need something to mess with other than flipping objects into the air and catching them when you need to think. And it’s from both of us, because we love you.” John’s voice is steady, but his tone belies his nerves.

Sherlock realizes he’s half expecting to be rejected, or to hear some cutting remark. It’s a logical deduction given their history, but inaccurate. He holds out his left hand. “Well, aren’t you meant to slip it on yourself?” he asks, unable to keep his smile from appearing no doubt utterly and ridiculously giddy.   

“Oh. Right, yeah.” John’s own smile is incandescent. He takes Sherlock’s hand and slides the ring on, then guides him up and into the middle of the room. He holds out his other hand for Mary, who comes over and takes it with a pleased expression of her own.

“So, apparently there aren’t limits,” she comments in a half-teasing, half-serious tone, echoing John’s comment from the first time they found themselves in this position. She leans in to kiss first John, and then tilts her head up towards Sherlock, waiting to see what he wants.

Sherlock kisses her softly on the lips, mentally sighing at the comfort of it, the soft sort of pleasure. He loves her as well, he realizes, and even if it is a different sort of love than he feels for John, it’s okay. He then turns to kiss John and oh, the immediate spike of arousal is enough to make him tremble. “I’ve no idea how this is supposed to work,” he admits as he puts his arms around them.

“We’ll figure it out. We’re good at that,” John assures him.

In the end, John laughs as Mary’s stomach gets in the way of any real attempt at dancing, and it’s really more of an awkward swaying regardless. Mary ends up stepping on Sherlock’s feet since she can’t even see her own, damn it, and what do they expect? In the end, they collapse onto the sofa in a tangle of limbs, laughing and kissing until long after the song ends. Sherlock does his best to memorize this moment: the feel of their bodies touching his, a fluttering against his hand as he touches her stomach, their eyes shining in the firelight. _Sentiment_ , Sherlock thinks. Well, perhaps it’s not such a bad thing after all.

 


End file.
